Tyranny in Fabled Flesh
by ShoutFinder
Summary: Failing to complete a destiny is one thing—but to turn your back to it deliberately is quite another. The free lands are enslaved and the world is perishing, suffering, burning. What future awaits the bleak of hope and heart, with heroes corrupted by ambition and lust and the Dragon Wars come anew—when the world's greatest dragonslayer is the right hand of the World-Eater himself?
1. Prologue

_In the 201st year of the Fourth Era, dragons returned to Skyrim.  
_ _A hero was prophesied to stand among them, to become the one they feared.  
_ _The Scrolls foretold an end to the tyranny of Alduin in the form of his mortal bane, the Dragonborn.  
_ _Faithful to destiny's intangible course, the path was followed, the enemy pursued._

 _The end of the World-Eater was near..._

 **d|b**

 **-Prologue-**

The great beast was floundering. With a thunderous roar, he plummeted, crashing, sending a flurry of snow into the churning air, and it was then Malus knew that the battle was in their favour.

He advanced, axe dripping red as the eyes of this fallen god. Alduin reared his head at his approach and drew back his lips in a rattling snarl.

" _Dovahkiin_ , you cannot win."

Malus responded, heaving the axe into the joint of the dragon's wing. Alduin shrieked and lashed out. The Dragonborn shrugged off the blow, but the force sent him staggering, and gave the beast time to recover, hissing, spitting curses in his tongue.

Even trapped to the ground, enfolded in the villainous energies that was Dragonrend, the World-Eater was still a fearsome sight to behold. Ebony scales covering every inch of him, with eyes dark and red as desire glaring from the huge ridged skull. He drew breath and Malus dived, but the rising Thu'um was cut short as a blast of ice struck Alduin from behind. There was a great whirring of wings overhead as Paarthurnax circled.

" _Zeymah tahrodiis_ ," Alduin snarled, rearing. Malus charged, striking a wicked blow upon the exposed chest. The dragon screamed and thrashed. The Dragonborn barely had time to swerve clear, snarling his displeasure as flecks of black blood rattled over his armour, splashed onto his face. When the World-Eater recovered he twisted around, still crippled, lunging and snapping. Each blow Malus fended away, and when the creature stopped to draw a wearied breath, Malus struck hard and true, cleaving the beast's jaws and earning another agonized howl.

" _Pruzah_ , _Dovahkiin!_ " Paarthurnax landed, breathing deeply.

Alduin's eyes flashed murder. With a scream, he lunged at his brother, and the force of the huge black body thrust past knocked Malus clean off his feet. As he picked himself up from the snow, he watched them fighting with violent strength, wordless shrieks and howls erupting like Shouts from their throats. Black and grey, they writhed, sending sheets of white flying beneath their flailing, pounding tails and beating wings.

Black dragonblood splattered the snow by the time they pulled apart. Both were wounded but Malus saw Paarthurnax had certainly taken the worst beating. One wing hung limp at his side, the flesh scored with countless talon wounds, a deep gash had been opened on his face and his breathing was deeply laboured. It was hard to discern any wound on Alduin against his obsidian scales, but dark droplets were falling quickly from the ridges at the base of his throat.

Dragonrend was wearing off at last, and Alduin threw back his head and bellowed, wings flailing. Paarthurnax lunged, catching his brother's wing in his jaws. The World-Eater hissed and lashed at the aged dragon's head, biting hard upon the skull before thrusting him away. Paarthurnax fell into the snow where he lay still, breathing quickly and shallowly. Before the killing blow could be struck, Malus had driven his axe into Alduin's neck. Blood splattered, and the great beast staggered.

Malus wrenched the steel free and watched as the huge black head sank against the snow, eyes narrowed, breath rattling as he inhaled and exhaled. What pain he felt, he did not show nor sound it, yet it was clear the god was verging on defeat. As the jaws brushed the snow, Malus advanced, the axe sound and ready in his hand. He raised it.

And Alduin laughed.

It was a dreadful guttural thing, yet he laughed, and as he laughed he opened his eyes and met Malus's own. Malus hesitated beneath the red stare. He was not afraid, no longer, never again, yet he did not land the killing strike.

"I have seen your heart, _Dovahkiin_ , and it is mine."

Malus furrowed his brow. Heaving breath, Alduin lifted his head, a strange smile upon his lips.

"You claim to be _dovah_ , yet you refuse to be."

"Speak sense, demon," Malus growled.

Alduin laughed hoarsely, yet it was growing stronger. He raised his head higher and higher until he looked down upon the mortal who so nearly had taken him. "I have seen your heart, _joor_ ," he rumbled, "and I have seen the _rahgol_ that fills it. It is _ahzid_ , full of _irkbaan_." Bitter, he said, full of hatred. "You feel _suleyk_ in you, and _suleyk_ you crave." Power, he spoke of. "And when it seems the greatest _suleyk_ in all _Taazokan_ has been gifted to you, a mere _joor_ of _Keizaal_ …you have been told to beware it. Your _Thu'um_ is weak in your hesitance. Your hesitance fills you with _ahzid rahgol_ , yet what you do not understand is it is such a _rahgol_ that gifts to _dov_ their _mul_ , their _ahkrin_ , and their _suleyk_." Strength, courage and power, he said.

Malus shook his head to clear the haunting words, gripped the handle of his axe, determined to see this deed through. "I have all that already," he snarled, "and power…I have power over your life, that of a self-claimed god. If that is not power, then power is nothing."

" _Suleyk_ is nothing indeed, when you are told how to control it." Alduin leaned closer, his smile ever wider, eyes glinting like rubies against his dark bloody head. He could have taken to the air, yet here he lingered upon the snow. "And you have been told, so often, so many times, little _dovah_. It angers you, does it not? The rules, restrictions, the claims made by lesser _joorre_." He chuckled at the responding silence. " _Geh_ , I have your ear now, _Dovahkiin_. Listen, treasure my _rotte_. It is the _kruziik_ _rotte_ of an even more _kruziik qostiid_ that guides you now, yet there is still so much you have not been told, that the _lein_ has not permitted you to learn."

Malus stared the World-Eater down. "Like what?"

Alduin gazed. "What will happen when your _qostiid_ is fulfilled, little _dovah_. What becomes of you then? Of the _lein_? It is my duty from Akatosh that I render about the coming of the new world, the next _lein_ …your bards sing about the great _hun_ destined to protect the _lein_ from its eater, yet do they sing about the _krasfaal_ , the _pahlok_ , that plagues your _morokei lein_?" He spoke now of corruption and arrogance. "When the _lein_ has used you, you shall be useless, cast aside like a crippled _sivaas_ , and your _joorre_ will show you no more _aaz_ than I ever do to my _hokoronne_. You shall lose your _mul_ , you shall lose your _ahkrin_ , and you, above all, will lose your _suleyk_."

He leaned closer, and Malus made no move to strike him. The eyes bored closer and closer, full of scarlet belief. "Think, _Dovahkiin_. They whisper behind you. They look at you in _faas_. They despise your… _dumedak_." Difference, he said. "And when the _Dovahkiin_ falls, none shall weep for you, and leave your _slen_ to be devoured by _grohiikke_. When you are unneeded, the _lein_ shall go on, _kroved_ , _hinzaal_ , _munax_." The world would go on, he had said, corrupt, ignorant, cruel.

" _Dovahkiin_ , _niid_ …" The words rasped from behind, shaking, trembling with effort, yet filled with desperation Malus found curious to behold.

"This _qostiid_ was cast by such a _lein_ ," Alduin snarled, "and made you a pawn of _dilon zoorre_. To _qahnaar dii_ , the World-Eater, chosen by Akatosh to render about the rebirth of worlds! With such a rebirth I would purge _krasfaal_ from the _slen_ of the _lein_ , banish _nivzah koraakke_ from the hearts of _pahlok joorre_ , and bring about an age of _drem_ , of _thaarn_ , and of _moro_ this _lein_ has never known."

Alduin, the World-Eater, spoke of banishing false beliefs from arrogant mortals, and render an age of peace, obedience and glory Nirn had never seen. Malus listened, and he did not protest.

" _Dovahkiin!_ " Paarthurnax was urgent, his voice quivering in his bloodied throat; Malus turned to face the old dragon, struggling to lift his head, full of weakness as his blood splattered the snow about him. "He speaks not of purging _munax_ , only of growing his own _suleyk_ across the _lein_. Do not heed such _tahrodiis nokke!_ "

Malus did not answer. Treacherous lies, the old one claimed his brother spoke.

" _Dovahkiin_ ," Alduin growled, " _dii feyn_ , make your choice. In one _lein_ , you would have all the _suleyk_ you could dream. All would fear you, respect you, treat you as their _jun_ if you willed it. _Dii laas hin_ , my life is yours, yet give me _dilon_ and you have promised yourself a powerless life."

"Do not listen," Paarthurnax grunted, pushing and skidding in the drift. " _Dovahkiin_ , thousands look to you for hope! Thousands more will speak of you in _teyye_ as the _hun_ who slew the _feyn do junne!_ " He spoke from the Song of the Dragonborn, _bane of kings_ , he had said. Yet men were too banes of kings. Men had hungers to swallow the world as great as Alduin's, and men were corrupt, ignorant, weak.

And he, Malus, was strong.

" _Dovahkiin_ ," Alduin growled, "make your choice."

And Malus made it.

In three strides he stood over the old one's trembling throat, the axe swung high. Paarthurnax struggled and screamed, even as the blade bit deep, deep into his neck, through the flesh to the bone beneath, shattering it, penetrating it, thrust downward with more power than Malus had ever known he had. The blood that coated the axe was warm and sweet. He wrenched it free. The dark wound began to smolder.

Paarthurnax could not cling to life for long, yet he surely must have died listening to Alduin's great rumbling laughter.

" _Dovahkiin_ , _pruzah_ ," he purred, and Malus turned, dragon flesh catching fire behind him. "Your _rahgol_ shall be feared, your _irkbaan_ known throughout the _lein_. You shall be worthier than my _zeymah_ ever was."

Malus spoke softly, dangerously. "I am no subject."

" _Niid_ ," said Alduin, eyes glinting. "You shall be _dovah_ —and I name you _Joor Paal Rah_ , Mortal, Foe, God, that all _dov_ shall see you for what you were truly destined to be." Malus looked back at the burning body of Paarthurnax, and Alduin rumbled behind him. "I shall make you stronger than ever this _vax_ could have, teach you secrets known only to a god. Together, _Dovahkiin_ , this _lein_ shall be purged."

The Dragonborn felt _suleyk_ from the old one's soul fill his body, warming him against the bitter cold of the Throat of the World. "My lord," he smiled, and met the eyes of victory. "When do we begin?"

 **d|b**


	2. I - The Freerider

_The Night of Silence was scarcely believed, 'till the Dragonborn descended with his foe still living._

 _His bane now his brother, Alduin was free to reassert his rule over all. How the dragons rallied with the betrayal of prophecy! Upon Skyrim they descended fearlessly, and in flame and fang they forged for themselves a new empire. Resistances were subjugated. Enemies were crushed. Allies were rewarded. The old ways burned, and in their ashes rose the seat of the World-Eater's power._

 _Some say the purge took a single year. Some believe ten. It ended over a hundred years ago._

 _The Fourth Era dissolved into memory as the age of dragon supremacy dawned._

 **d|b**

 **-Ross-**

Dragonsong followed Ross in from the wilderness as he stepped into the inn.

The chatter ceased briefly as the door opened and closed. When the townsfolk saw no villain standing in the doorway, no robed and masked figure preaching gospel of dragons, they turned away, speaking again in low, hushed voices. It was familiar to Ross, the frightened glances and the whispered conversations. Very familiar.

He pushed back his travelstained hood and let his hair air in the dry smoky climate of the inn. It was thick hair, tangled and dark copper, tumbling around his collar. Ross closed his eyes and savoured the peace, then made his way to the counter. The innkeeper was perhaps the only man who recognized him.

"Carlos, isn't it? Bless my stars, it's been a while."

Ross smiled politely as he seated himself. "Aye, that it has, Sarrolf. Two years, I believe."

"Two years…Ysmir's beard." Sarrolf whistled through his soiled yellow whiskers, then ducked down behind the counter. "But I still remember your favourite. Warm, dry ale, am I right?"

"For Carlos, aye," said Ross, pushing three golden septims across the counter.

The men beside him studied him with new eyes. "That a fox pin on your cloak?" one asked.

Ross traced it with a fingertip. "That it is, good men."

"Freerider," they said, and one raised his brow while the other sat to attention. "Hell, and here we'd thought we'd seen the last of 'em round here."

"We tend not to linger in one place long," said Ross, and accepted the tankard.

The two men were not so easily dismissed. "So," one prompted, "what's the word of…well, out there? The world?"

Ross took a decent swallow.

"We've heard of trouble in the east, snippets of conversation from passing dragonmen," the other murmured, looking about furtively. "They plunder the tundra there, causin' much grief as they would, rebellious men they are."

"Rebels." Ross replaced the tankard on the bar and turned to face them. "Not quite. They've been calling themselves the Raiders, from what I've heard. Nord men and women of Old. They keep their own gods, to the traditions Skyrim hasn't seen since a hundred years back."

"The old way…" The two men exchanged a glance. "You mean…?"

Ross checked for interested ears, then whispered one word: "Talos."

He lifted his cup again and swirled the contents about. "I've ridden through the east," he went on, "and learned many strange things. The dragons name it _Jergevild_ —" His pronunciation of the guttural dragon tongue was coarse at best. "—as they would, but the Nords of Old go by it as Eastmarch. They resist their dragon overlords openly. Thus have they been named rebels, heathens and traitors to Skyrim."

"Traitors," one man echoed disbelievingly, hissing through his whiskers. His fist clenched. "Traitors for what, for fighting for what men should be, free? Skyrim must be free. It was free long ago."

"So many say," said Ross thoughtfully. "One hundred years, when you think about it, is not so long ago." He spared the men a glance. "And these men are old. They remember the old way of your Nordic people. When men lived free and dragons were the hunted ones."

"Do they tell stories?" asked one, leaning closer. "What stories?"

"Stories, no." Ross sipped the ale. Dark and dry. "Legend, however, they do."

"Legend?" echoed the other.

"Aye." Ross thought back to nights spent by their tavern fires, listening. "There's a song they like to keep to, to sing when the dragonmen aren't near. The Song of the Dragonborn, they call it."

The men's faces tightened in fearful anger. "The Dread? They praise _him_?"

"Not him, no," said Ross carefully, "they sing for a different sort. They claim Dragonborn were meant to be champions of gods, heroes of the people, and the one they speak of is just that, a warrior so mighty he was favoured by our old gods, destined to strike down the World-Eater himself."

There was a short, brooding silence. Ross drank his ale.

"If only I could believe that," one grumbled at last. "If only, though, and if-onlys aren't going to keep you living. Living keeps you living, and wagging a tongue about that sort of false-hope is only going to get the people upset."

Ross held up a hand for peace. "A freerider takes no sides," he reminded them. "Think me a mockingbird than a fox; I say what I hear, no more and no less."

"Not blaming you," the man said. "Freeriders will be freeriders." He drank some, and set his tankard down. "What of the other holds? Any news?"

"From the north?" Ross thought for a moment. "Ah, yes. His honour Dragonlord Vylornar is leading a cohort of dragons and dragonmen to perform a census of the cities there. It's a prospect I've heard many say they fear, and rightly so, if what I've also heard of Vylornar's exploits is true."

"With dragonmen, they always are," the other growled.

"Have you seen Vylornar in the flesh?" the man asked.

Ross shook his head. "And I count myself lucky I haven't as of yet," he said. "Nonetheless, it will only be a matter of time before I do, surely. My travels take me to all places of the province, and Vylornar may call upon my wisdom of the world should he ever see me on the road." He thought of all he had heard from the many tongues that wagged of the Dragonlord; a close follower of the World-Eater, they sang him to be, an Altmer of fearsome stature, dreaded wielder of fire, bearing a dragon's wicked heart. But then again, tales were usually exaggerated, especially from the mouths of the frightened. He took a thoughtful sip of his drink.

"What of the west?" the other inquired.

"Little has happened," said Ross, "other than the wolves have grown restless of late; they attack the isolated hovels and towns with great savagery, tens dead with every raid."

"No surprise at that," they supposed. "With dragons burning down more of their forest every day, it's no wonder they're driven to hunt men," one man muttered. "One day," the other predicted, "they'll start hunting dragons. Serve 'em bastards right."

"Shh." His companion nudged his ribs. "Any dragonman hears your tongue wagging that, you'll lose it."

The man fell obligingly silent, scowling into his tankard.

"The stonehold, then," said the first man, "what news of it?"

"It would be old news I tell you of that place, and rumours I have learned from other tongues," said Ross. "I am yet to return there. My work has kept me oft riding to the east, north and west. The greenwood south and stonehold west, I know little certain of." He drank. "All I can imagine is that the dragons have been killing, razing, destroying, nesting and breeding in the remains of shattered human lives, as they have done since the Dragonborn turned to Alduin's cause. And the southern fires, of course." His countenance turned grim. "There are always fires burning in the southern provinces now."

There was a short, uneasy silence at this, until at last the first man asked, "So where are you headed now?"

"Now?" Ross shrugged. "I have no work for now. I might stay a little in Hillhaven…"

"You're free for hire?" The other seemed quite excited. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a slightly crumpled letter. "Please, sir, would you ride to Whiter—I mean to say, _Ahgelingrah_ —" He stumbled especially badly over the dragon word, Ross noted. "—and deliver this to a woman named Salda? She worries if I don't write for a while. She's a fruit seller, last I recall, working in the commons market."

Ross took the letter. "Payment?"

His client swiftly withdrew a pouch and set it on the counter. It made a healthy clatter, but Ross still took the pouch and ran his fingers against the thin, brown skin, feeling out each coin, just to check he wasn't being cheated. How many had tried with a freerider… "This should cover the cost," he said, pocketing it, "if it's only to _Ahgelingrah_."

"Yes," said his client, "I doubt she would have moved."

That Ross could agree to; it was the reason why freeriding was such a valued occupation in these dark and dangerous times. Freeriders were the men and women who swore absolute neutrality between mortal and dragon, who took no sides and lived homeless lives directed only by the patronage of the homely men and women wishing to stay in contact with divided family and friends. Messengers, freeriders were oft called as well. Easy prey, the dragons said. But Ross had been a freerider near all his life, and he was especially wise in the nature of travel. As of yet, he and his Cyrodiilian-bred mount, a foreigner to these lands just as he was, had not ever been preyed by hunting dragons.

He pocketed the letter, fingers brushing the strap that held his crossbow, pinned in its sheath against his back. Its presenting weight comforted him, reminded him that should danger ever threaten, he was not entirely defenseless. "On my honour as a messenger, I will endeavour to see this letter reach its destination," he said formally.

"Thank you, sir." The man was grateful. "Carlos, the innkeeper named you?"

Ross smiled wryly at that. He was wiser than most freeriders. Men who kept one name could easily be traced. He had a name for every city, town, hovel and village he visited, and not one of them was the one his mother had given him; he rode the roads nameless. "Aye," he said simply, the Nordic way. He brushed back a strand of hair and downed the last of his ale. "And since I have work, it is probably best I leave as quick as I can."

"But you've only just arrived," the innkeeper protested, who appeared to have been listening to every word. "Not to mention it's darkening out there…"

"Wolves, sabre cats and bears I'd rather face than dragons," said Ross gravely, sliding down from the barstool. "And dragons hunt best in daytime. I prefer the night to day when travelling; dragons can't smell nearly as well as they can see, what with their snouts full of soot."

And he hated lingering idle, he truly did. Riding had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, and he grew restless if he stayed in one place for too long. He relished movement, which was a boon in these times; those who didn't oft got killed eventually. Grateful for the contract to keep him busy, the Imperial freerider returned to the outside, immersed in the dragonsong haunting the horizons since before he had been born.

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: Greetings all, and warm welcomes to this cold-hearted Tyranny!**

 _ **Continuing work on my other current fanfictions has proven very difficult. Nobody seems to want to do anything anymore in them. While I quietly twist their arms back into the groove, I decided to focus on a novel and finish it, and this is what has been done. It worked well, so I'll be following that method of finish-first-post-second from now on.**_

 **This work was semi-inspired by my current all-time favourite fantasy series,** _ **A Song of Ice and Fire**_ **. Martin's method of Point of View changes was enlightening, so I'll be following that layout a little and in doing so covering this universe from several aspects. Hopefully it won't be too confusing. I've decided to keep this novel small in regard to POV characters, to allow me to build upon this alternate reality of a Skyrim changed for the worse. Ideas came to me as I first wrote the draft of this novel, so they too shall be (hopefully!) introduced slowly.**

 ** _For the first few chapters I'll be writing little introductions as I've now done twice previously, to teach you bit by bit about this world and understand the differences that have ensued with the Dragonborn's betrayal of his destiny. Freeriders and Dragonlords, for example, are just two of the many new lifestyles that have arisen in response to the Fifth Era._**

 **(There is a map detailing Skyrim's multitude of new settlements and cities on my DeviantArt account, if pictures serve better than words!)  
((My account can be accessed from Google, same penname, or from the link on my profile))**


	3. II - The Thief

_As the dragons rose to power, so too did the Dragonlords - enforcers of their masters' whim, eager for a place of power in the new world. Distinguished before the Dragonborn's eyes, he chose them as mortal servants to act in his name. Many infamous deeds they performed to earn their lord's esteem during the purge._

 _The combined fury from heavens and earth ripped apart any threat in the form of army, guild, or warrior band. Many orders old and young withdrew from the unmatched wrath._

 _But all was not lost, for out of sight, some survive still._

 **d|b**

 **-Viper-**

 _Riften_ , her town had been called one hundred years ago—until the dragons came and burned it to the ground.

They'd done that to the old cities of Skyrim in the turning age; razed the old down, had the terrified locals rebuild anew, and blessed them in names in the conquerors' tongue. The city in the golden meadows, the trading heart of Skyrim, had been rebuilt, five times bigger than it had been before, to house the countless dragonmen and Dragonlords that favoured the wide, sweeping landscape for its bountiful offerings for their dragon minions. The commonfolk, meanwhile, were crammed in the lowest level in crowded hovels, next to the beasts that came out at night to hunt.

The one to the farthest north, atop its stone arch, had been destroyed, rebuilt and renamed. _Solitude_ , the commonfolk said it was named before, where Wolf Queens lived and died. The dragons, mockingly, had renamed the city _Aardiiah_ —"Servitude", a crude impersonation of what had been.

They had tried the one in the stonehold, but everything had been made of stone, and nothing would burn. The citizens there continued calling it Markarth, their biggest achievement against their dragon overlords. Disdainfully the dragons speak of it as _Frilingul_ , which was said to mean 'cave of cravens'.

The city in the easthold _Jergevild_ had been made of stone as well, yet the dragons smashed it down to rubble and made the survivors start over. The mountains surrounding the remade city had been hollowed out to make lairs for the frost dragons that presided there and to the northhold. A statue of the heathen god Talos once had stood overlooking the old city, and the dragons had smashed it to rubble too. _Nidrinnilz_ , they arrogantly blessed the new city. The folk there said its name meant 'heathen-purged'.

The city in the autumnwood, the bearwood, the redwood—the commons had many names for the territory—had only been made of wood. It had burned a great bonfire a hundred years ago, turning the canal black with ash and charred things. The trees all about it had been burned away. Dragonfire was a clumsy thing. A hundred years on and still the dragons permitted not a sapling to grow near, aware it was too easy for their slaves and prey to sneak over the trapping walls at night and lose themselves in the woods. Each night they called curfew, and any out would be slain on sight. It was a wicked place, this rebuilt city of sin, a bowl of meal for immortal overlords.

Thus its name, _Aarhorvutah_ , or 'Slavetrap', was deeply fitting.

But not all of Riften had entirely died a hundred years past. The Cistern had survived. Underground, it had escaped the dragonfire above. The old Ratways were gone but the Cistern had survived—and because the Cistern had survived, the Thieves Guild had survived.

And from the Thieves Guild, Viper survived.

She had not grown, mercifully, in Slavetrap. She had lived in the wilderness, an orphan since the foundations of her memory permitted her. Or, she had to keep returning to the wilderness, as she had to keep moving, city to city, town to town. She had to steal to live. She had been shunned, kicked, chased out of the city gates, or caught and made to swear never to return on her life. But Viper, who had grown beneath her own willful independence, was not so easily frightened out of easy pickings. Desperate times had made her quick and lean, but her fingers were even quicker and leaner, swift to filch into an unattended pocket and sneak a few septims away, just enough for a mouthful to eat, not enough for the figure to miss.

When she had to run, those were the times she had been caught pickpocketing her life.

And through her eventful childhood, Viper had come to Slavetrap, the New Riften. Her attire had changed from threadbare rags to skillful stitched leather, her occupation from begging girl to acclaimed, infamous thief. Her home had become the Cistern.

The Guild wasn't thriving, she'd freely admit, but it lived, and that was what was most important in these dangerous times.

 _Aarhorvutah_ was full of dragonmen, day and night; soldiers who served Alduin willingly, for lust of power, for need of purpose, or for the sake of ensuring they would not perish as prey. Slavetrap was also full of frightened villagers desperately trying to scrape a living and keep the dragons and dragonmen marginally satisfied. New Riften was full of thieves. The trick was learning to tell them apart.

And the one thing Viper knew better than this city's history was her profession.

She stood, this senior operative, atop one of the buildings overlooking the market square. The locals say their forefathers had tried to rebuild New Riften to look as similar as Old Riften had, yet with just enough appropriate changes for the dragons to be satisfied, and not burn their efforts down again out of malignant spite. The moat still ran through the town, but it had grown around it, thrice as big as before to make room for the dragonmen's lodgings. There were five varying blacksmiths scattered throughout town, to appease the demand for armour and weapons—theirs was perhaps the only profession really making a boon in these times—and Viper watched the smoke rising from their forges, up and up to be torn apart in the bleak silver sky. She saw the people bustling below, trying desperately to look unafraid. Once Viper caught a glimpse of the warden of _Gravuungevild_ , the slimy Argonian Lanzeel 'Fire-Friend', moving about the market with his reptilian nose high in the air, haughtily examining the goods the commons had to scrape from thin air. Viper would have very much liked to relieve Lanzeel's purse, if it weren't for his scaled hound Geentara dogging his every footstep, hand closed tight around the hilt of the steel sword that was his greatest achievement. Maybe one day he would learn how to swing it.

Oh, Lanzeel was a dragonman if there ever was one, and their biggest bootlicker in all Skyrim.

She saw the unaffiliated children running in the streets, playing games, filching goods out of pockets, fruitlessly begging stories out of dragonmen. She saw a Guildsister unobtrusively duck down behind an abandoned stall. She saw a pair of Bosmer townsfolk haggling over the price of an apple. She even saw a dragon, and not just one; a whole patrol of them swept overhead, growling and snarling to one another. At their shadows absolute terrified silence befell the streets as the citizens of Slavetrap stared up at their overlords in terror. When the dragons moved on without sign of stopping, normal life hesitantly resumed.

Viper looked cautiously after the dragons. She would not dare to boast she was not afraid of them, but certainly she was not terrified. _Why, the serpent is but a cousin of a dragon, and a serpent is certainly how the world has seen me._ Viper was the name that had come to her in her years of growing infamy; her kiss was poison to men, her mark the coiling snake. All knew it, particularly in New Riften. It was a rural legend, the snake in their grass.

"Vi."

Viper turned, and raised the corner of her eyebrow. "Whatcha got for me?"

"Uh…" Ah, junior operatives. So shy. This one was no different. After a bit of foot-shuffling she said, "It's…the…the Guildmaster that's wanting you."

"Ah," said Viper, and strutted past the junior thief, at ease on the slanted rooftop. The junior wasn't quite as comfortable yet, though no doubt she'd grow into it. They always did. She shimmied down the gutter and landed catlike on the soft grass below. More clumsily, the junior followed. Unnoticed, they stalked the back alley streets of New Riften to their hidden door.

Guild legend claimed their former secret entrance had been in a mausoleum, decorated in the profound Thieves Guild sigil—a circle within a diamond. The rebuild had encouraged them to just be a little more secretive about it, and the entrance was a cellar-like door low set beneath a building friends with the Guild. There was only one Guild shadowmark, in the bottom left-hand corner. Viper pressed it, the lock undid at her touch, and then she and her young Guildsister were in the small barren cellar, standing over the circular wooden trapdoor that had managed to survive Old Riften's razing a hundred years back. Viper went in first, scurrying down the old iron rungs. They, too, had survived the raze, as had everything in the Cistern.

Only one thing had changed, and that was the Guild itself. Time had passed, old had left and new had come to take their places. Viper was merely one of them; with so many seeking a hiding place and an income all at once, the Guild was near overflowing with new members. The forty-odd in the Cistern were just some of the ones who'd done so much as pass the thief tests. It was almost fortunate that about five or six died each year.

Viper blew a kiss to the statue of Nocturnal as she passed it; that, Guild legend claimed, had been erected upon the learning of the Nightingale Trinity—that like dragons, they had not been a myth. The Daedric Prince was the patron to thieves, providing luck and cover of darkness to ensure their success. It was unknown who the new Trinity was now, though there were plenty of rumours going about. Most believed the Guildmaster, a sly, cunning kinsman named Cenrin, to most certainly be a devout of Lady Luck. His Second, a wily Dunmer by the name of Janquil, was also a strong suspect, given her rather shocking talent with throwing daggers and her apparent indifference concerning death. The third remained under speculation. Some said it was Ma'rhaq, the Khajiiti infiltrator who spent his spare time honing his dual-wielding talents. Others believed Faendred, the fierce Bosmer enforcer, who so enjoyed cracking men's bones with her mace when the opportunity presented itself. A few times Viper herself had been considered for the role of Nightingale, to which she had deflected the possibility. "Snakes have no need of handheld weapons, my friends. All they need is their poison and their wit to survive."

And poison she had; in her childhood Viper had briefly been adopted by a roaming alchemist who only ever called himself Celandine, after his favourite herbal plant. From him Viper learned to make potions, but also, and better, poisons. Viper specialized in what she named her Serpent's Kiss; a painful paralyzing poison that she had perfected to do absolutely no harm to women. It was so easy to smear a little on her lips, entrance her client and administer her freezing kiss, and so entertaining to make them watch her calmly remove their valuables from their person and lodgings, if they happened to be home at the time. Of course, they'd only watch for a little bit, before the celandine flower in the poison made their eyes bleed and they'd weep red tears to remember her by.

There stood Cenrin, observing the map on his desk. He stirred as he detected Viper's quiet approach, and a small smile lit his lips. "Ah, the serpent herself has arrived."

"Apologies for the delay, Guildmaster." Viper smiled as she settled on the corner of his desk. "I grew distracted watching my cousins fly past the city."

Cenrin's countenance darkened at once. "Damned dragons," he muttered. "Perhaps there will come a day when we make our presence more…known to them." He spun a septim between his fingers as he spoke. "And when that happens, they will simply leave Riften alone."

"New Riften," Viper corrected absently.

"It shouldn't be new at all, but I don't give a Skeever's arse what the dragons think." Cenrin smiled once more. He was young, for a Breton, and he looked even younger. "And speaking of dragons, I have a new task for you."

"Oh?" Viper quirked her brow. "And it has something to do with dragons."

"Everything these days has something to do with dragons." The Guildmaster traced his finger along the eastern border of Skyrim. "But the task I have for you is perhaps just as dangerous as dealing with a dragon head-on."

"Sounds intriguing." She leaned forward. "What is it?"

His finger came to rest upon Skyrim's northernmost city. "Servitude. Solitude. Whatever you want to call it."

Viper curled her lip in distaste. "It's on the other side of the flipping province. It'd better be worth our time."

"Oh, it is." Cenrin met her gaze, a twinkle in his cool green eyes. "We've received a very good payout for this one, one that could set us up for months if you do it right. Of course, I entrust this task only to our most eloquent serpent."

"What do you need me to do?"

"I should warn you, it involves a Dragonlord."

Viper's belly twisted into apprehensive knots. She did her best to not let it show. "We've dealt with those blighters before."

"Aye, but not quite like this one." Cenrin's face was cold in sincerity. "This is Dragonlord Ollos, a Dunmer as wicked as our very own Janquil. You have heard of him, I presume."

Viper curled her lip a second time. "Hasn't anyone?" Ollos was almost as infamous as Vylornar, a close mortal hand of the World-Eater. Her skin crawled at the mere thought of the dragon overlord; she would shamelessly admit the thought of the World-Eater terrified her so much more than the thought of dragons in general. Dragons she saw near every day; their cruelty, she witnessed near every week. The World-Eater, however…he was a god descended, wicked and cruel without the faintest idea of mercy, and an absolute hate of weakness. Mortals, in his eyes, were weak; only the strongest ones, the most ambitious, angry, determined warriors were ever chosen as his mortal enforcers.

Ollos was said to be as cruel as his master. He even looked the part, with his dark skin and red eyes as befit his Dunmeri kinsfolk. The commons whispered that Ollos boiled prisoners alive if they did not tell what he wanted to know, and those who attempted escape were shown no mercy. He would flay them, they whispered, inch by inch of skin while they pleaded for death until their throats were as raw and bloody as their bodies soon became.

The stories they told were absolutely horrific. It did nothing to resolve Viper.

"You want me to seduce a heartless man," she muttered. "And for what? What bloody idiot wants to upset a Dragonlord, especially the cruelest Dragonlord in all Tamriel?"

"A man by the name of Kaarn Stormbear."

Viper recognized. "The leader of the Raiders?"

"The same." Cenrin reached behind his desk and dropped a sack, rather noisily, onto the desktop's surface. A few contents spilled free, and Viper recognized them at once.

Stunned, she picked one up in her hand, turning it over. When she opened the golden lid, the stone lay within, red as blood, a perfect diamond. "Where in the name of the gods did a man like Kaarn Stormbear…?"

"Found them, he insisted, but we needn't bother ourselves with the origins." The Guildmaster smiled as he took the golden gilded case back. "All that matters is you complete this task, Viper, and the Guild will be given no less than sixteen Stones of Barenziah."

 _Sixteen_. "There are four in here," said Cenrin, gesturing to the sack. "A down payment."

 _Sixteen_. "How…how did he get so many?" Viper gaped at her Guildmaster, for once lost for words. "We've been searching for so much as _one_ for decades!"

"Does it matter? If we get this job done we'll bring our stone count to nineteen. There will be only four more to find after that, and then the crown." The Breton thief smiled more broadly. "Would you imagine completing that crown—it would bring in an absolute fortune from the criminal underworld across Tamriel—the recomplete Crown of Barenziah, a relic of the past, a memory of the days before there were dragons ruling the skies and World-Eaters dominating our liberty. It would set the Guild back on its feet. I cannot express to you the wealth gained from this mission."

Viper narrowed her eyes. "Nor can I express my absolute distaste at seducing a man who flays men alive." She crossed her arms. "What if I'm caught?"

"Don't." Cenrin's voice was tart. "You'll find Ollos in Servitude. The goal is a pendant he's known to wear; a purple crystal, encircled in silver bands engraved with draconic runes. What Stormbear intends for this pendant I've no idea, but given his price it's certainly very important. No doubt it's something to do with the rebellion he leads in the easthold."

"I never said I was going to take the job," said Viper coolly.

"Were you going to say you wouldn't?" Cenrin countered.

They held steely gazes, until at last the Guildmaster broke the festering silence. "Do this for us, serpent seducer, and you'll have restored to the Guild glory and wealth like we've never known in living memory."

Viper didn't answer for a few moments. She let the silence resume, hang. Then she said, very frostily, "Am I going alone?"

Cenrin tilted his head. "You want an accomplice?"

"I want Janquil."

"Done."

The transaction was so fast Viper almost forgot herself.

"She'll do little," she warned her Guildmaster. "But I'd feel a lot more confident knowing I had a capable Guildsister watching my back, in case things get ugly. I've no intention of being boiled by that revolting elf."

Cenrin smiled. "I say what I mean, Viper. My Second will accompany you to Servitude. Hopefully you two will be able to come to the necessary arrangements."

"We'll plan on the way. Servitude is five days from now."

"Shall I expect you back in a fortnight?"

"If I'm not back, I'm dead or lost."

"So be back."

"I intend to."

Cenrin straightened. "Horses will be waiting after twilight in the stables. Sleep until then; night's the safest way to travel."

"And the most dangerous time to leave Slavetrap." Viper hissed disdainfully. "Everything I do when I leave this Cistern will be the most threatening I have ever done in my short life, are you aware of that?"

"That I am." Cenrin's gaze never drifted from hers. "I'm also aware that if we pull this heist off, you'll not only be the most renowned infamous thief in Skyrim, but our Guild's reputation will grow. More clients will approach us seeking contracts done, more gold will come rolling in, and more chances of completing our Crown of Barenziah will proffer themselves. I hope you're aware that if you refuse to take on this contract, you'll be the most shamed thief in Tamriel."

Viper glared. "I never said no."

"Excellent." The Breton thief's eyes were shrewd. "Then I'll see you and Janquil back in a fortnight."

 **d|b**


	4. III - The Bandit

_Skyrim was dangerous long before the dragons. Manbeasts and undead skulked in the darkness and descended upon the unwary. But the dragons presented a dangerous foe, for the majority exhaled flame, a violently destructive weakness upon both legendary monsters._

 _Skyrim's native vampire clans very quickly vanished, while werewolves simply seemed to disappear..._

 **d|b**

 **-Chase-**

Morning brought prey.

Chase hissed with delight. They hadn't had any fresh pickings for quite some time.

She looked out from the sentry balcony, staring into the wilderness, trying to fathom how far their—her—prey would be. She was hungry. Her clan shared her hunger in a most different way. She would have gone and ambushed her prey herself, if not aware of the restrictions her chieftain had laid across her. The men needed a chance to let out their stress, too.

For Chase, killing was glory, glory to her goddess mother.

She twitched restlessly, curling her lips, a soft growl in her throat. When she eventually saw a glimpse of the prey, the scents came with greater clarity, twenty, thirty strong. She smiled broadly and looked over her shoulder.

"Scent something, dog?" the Redguard below called up.

Chase grinned. "Breakfast."

Amos was one of the few in their clan who was rather indifferent to her seemingly cannibalistic behaviour. Of course, the whole clan knew what she was, so they never looked twice to the fact—they did when she was in the act. He turned and jumped down from his lower perch, into the barricaded camp behind them, stirring them up, shouting orders.

Chase remained where she was, and she looked back at the distant caravan. The breeze came back, clawing at her auburn hair, bringing information about her prey. _Nord_ , she detected, _Bretons…two Bretons, an Argonian, a few Redguards…_ Only one group would have such a diverse, peculiar spread of beings. _Dragonmen._

That was good. It had been a long time since they'd seen the men on their own, without the dragons.

They were always in earshot. The wild dragons were constantly hunting, and a few even braved it on clear nights. It had been just that the previous night, a good night for fine hunting, and Chase had hunted beneath the twin eyes of the moons. Chase pricked up her ears and listened. Though they never seemed to be seen until the last minute, they were always heard; their rolling, rumbling cries carried for many, many miles.

"What are they?" Amos had returned below.

Chase didn't turn. "Dragonmen."

Amos gave a low hiss. "How many?"

"I count twenty-four."

She heard Amos withdraw his warhammer, a brutish thing, all Orcish metal. "Only half, remember."

Chase gritted her teeth. "Half? That's not enough. I hunger."

"We all do. But we hunger for the chance of combat. They'll be scared enough with your monster loosed on them."

"And my clan?" Chase smirked and looked down at him. "What if they simply freeze at the sight of me, and are cut down by the dragonman they're meant to be slaying? To sate their puny hungers?"

"You still have the flesh when we're done with them," Amos growled, sounding wolfish himself. "And you'd better be hungry. Those dragons see one body of their own on the road, they'll burn us."

"Let them." Chase ran a tongue delicately over her lips. "I haven't tried dragon flesh yet."

She looked back at the road, winding down from the hills. Their road passed over a stream and wound through a small gorge, and that was where her clan was situated, hidden in the rocks, springing down to surprise their foes, smother them, and slay them. It was what made this road so infamous—especially to dragonmen. "Let them come indeed," she muttered, and her words were snatched away by the wind.

The dragonmen came clearer, tagging together in a haphazard group. Chase looked with disgust upon the bootlickers, the cravens, the greedy men. The world would not miss them, and in serving the dragons they would surely meet their own sticky ends. To serve a god who knew nothing of mercy, only death was promised them, nothing more.

 _But my god…_ Chase smiled broadly. _It is so easy to honour her, and so simple to satisfy._

She disappeared from her sentry post. Amos was already ready and waiting, crouched among the rock crevasses with his warhammer slung over his shoulder. Chase sprang back into the camp where it seemed near deserted. Her fellow bandits were ready and waiting, eyes glinting, giving her angry, glaring looks as would befit a nosy mutt. Chase bared her teeth and sprang upon the rocks, quicker and faster than any mere mortal could hope to climb.

She came to rest just above the hiding place of Estilde. The latter spared her a glance and growled through gritted teeth, "Only half is for you, dog."

"You sound like Amos." Chase curled her lip. "You're no fun."

"You may not have noticed, wolf, but life isn't fun." Estilde slowly drew her greatsword, and it made a long rasping sound as it was freed from its sheath. "It's about living and dying, and making a living to survive on."

Chase grinned. "You don't know how to _enjoy_ killing." She knew she was right; Estilde had been born a villager in a perfectly respectable little town somewhere down south; she had come to the clan when dragons had slain her townsfolk and burned her home to ashes. Since that day Estilde had been full of bitterness, caring for nothing and no-one but her own share in the plunder.

Estilde glowered at her, but seemed to find no answer. Chase felt a rumble building in her throat, hunger pricking at her tongue like tiny, sharp claws. She scurried just a little higher up the rock, feeling her skin burn and tickle, darkness building in her mind, a glint of bronze eyes in the dark.

Then the dragonmen entered the gorge. The bandits shrank low, absolutely silent, shooting one another glinting glances. Chase peered over the crest, smiling, watching them pass below. They were wary, looking about them in absolute caution, weapons drawn. When they started to pass through safely, noticed no immediate danger, they began to relax.

That was when Chase threw back her head and howled.

They turned in fright, they shouted at the sight of her, and the bandits answered, swarming down from the walls of the gorge, springing onto the road, in front and behind, penning them. Chase snarled with delight and cleared the distance between her and the bandits in a single bound. Their screams were cut short, the first few her claws struck, and singing praise to her goddess mother, Chase fed, and enjoyed it.

The oldest bandits in the clan had long grown used to the monster she became in battle, but the younger, the less-experienced, the cravens-at-heart, stopped and gaped and backed away in a fear of their own. Chase paid them little heed; she had done this for so long, so often, she had perfect control over her mind even as bloodlust surged through her veins and set her senses afire. She snatched at the next dragonman, pinned him to the ground and tore his chest apart. His guts spilled free, shiny and wriggling as naked worms, and she feasted on his still-beating heart, right before his horrified eyes. To the next she sprang at him, clutched his throat in her claws, and squeezed his head from his body. The one after that she pinned and tore out his throat, savouring the taste of his terror and then the stench of death.

When a bold dragonman advanced, howling obscene curses at her, Chase responded. She let him toy with her for a while, the blade flashing in and out, attempting to penetrate her deep red fur; then, when she tired of him, she lunged, tore the armour plate from him in sweeping, yanking gestures, and devoured him as he screamed. When she rose, blood running from her jaws and a famished glint in eyes turned fiery gold, fear absolute filled the bodies of the last dragonmen who dared face her. She smiled at them, fangs red, aware she was still permitted at the very least five more kills. She flew at them. They tried to fight back, and vainly. What mere mortal man could stand against a born werewolf?

When it ended, Chase was not yet ready to resume her human flesh; the smell of fear and blood and death stirred a deep hunger in her gut. Just over twenty corpses lay strewn across the slick red road; the ones she couldn't see were most likely in her already. No bandit lives had been lost; her howl of terror had filled the prey all with just that, and like men dead already they'd floundered in battle. The bandits complained of a poor fight and shot her wary glances as she prowled among them, a great red beast with her muzzle soaked in scarlet. Amos stood back, looting the bodies before Chase could get at them and spoil the goods, while Estilde, indifferent, cleaned the blood from her greatsword on the corpse of the Argonian.

Chase devoured as she went. Her hunger was insatiable. Each she consumed, she blessed with prayer to her goddess mother.

Most of the bandits at this point retired to spare their stomachs the sight of their fellow mortals disappearing in the manner they were. Chase was perfectly content to be left on her own, feeding, occasionally snarling off stray dogs that tried to snatch a mouthful for themselves. It was the chieftain who ordered her, finally, to turn back.

Chase glared at him. He stood on the safety of the highest sentry platform, grey eyes glinting like steel. Dressed head to foot in thick silver armour, most men quailed at the sight of Gramu the Warglutton, a man who boasted his mother was an Orc, his father an unknown Nord warrior. He had the strength, size and temperament to prove it—but while Chase was a wolf, even he looked upon her in respect. She was stronger, and few were.

He stared down at her unflinchingly, and she met his gaze in fury. She drew back her lips, but Gramu was resolute. Chase flattened her ears, unwilling to turn, then ducked her head in furious submission, abandoned the remains of her fresh corpse and stalked to the nearby river to clean the blood from her muzzle and fur.

But she never quite cleaned it from her mouth. Even as she sank into the icy waters, reluctantly assuming her human skin beneath the slippery surface, she kept the taste of blood on her tongue, so she would not quite forget the truest, strongest, fearful reason why the road to Servitude was so little used.

Chase smiled as she crouched, naked, in the river's embrace. _Would you offer your throat to the hungry wolf, my clan?_ She surfaced, the sunlight dazzling her hunter's senses. _Do not presume this dog shall remain obedient for long._

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: Through Chase, I hope to suggest how a certain kind of predator in Skyrim has changed in response to the dragons' dominance. Many of the ideas I present concerning her will be my own, including the thought of 'pureborn' werewolves; her lycanthropy was directly passed down to her, rather than her contracting it. She still remains susceptible to natural werewolf weaknesses, namely silver. Thoughts on this idea?**


	5. IV - The Mage

_To control Skyrim's population, a census of its populace was performed every twenty years, overseen by a Dragonlord._

 _They were punishing times, for the dragons brutally enforced their laws upon mortals, while more than willing to break those laws themselves. They gloated in their power, which after the purge, it seemed none dared to oppose again._

 **d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

 _18_ _th_ _Sun's Height, 5E102_

 _By the order of his honour High Dragonlord Vylornar Andorhlil, the human settlements located and acknowledged within the territory of Bromgevild will undergo a required census of human and inhuman inhabitants, questioning on suspected illicit activities, verification of new populations and acceptances of the might of the Supreme Overlord of Dragonkind, Bane of Kings, Devourer of Worlds, First-Born of Akatosh and Renderer of Rebirth, Lord Alduin. His honour High Dragonlord Vylornar Andorhlil has been given the title of High Inquisitor for the duration of this census, and his power may only be challenged by those equal and above rank._

 _The census shall proceed as follows:_

 _Gahriknaar – 20_ _th_ _Sun's Height  
_ _Iizkiindah – 22_ _nd_ _Sun's Height  
_ _Hunmah – 24_ _th_ _Sun's Height  
_ _Felniirkest – 26_ _th_ _Sun's Height  
_ _Aargol – 28_ _th_ _Sun's Height  
_ _Felniirgevild – 30_ _th_ _Sun's Height_

 _Resistors of census will be prosecuted._

 _Alduin thuri!_

The letters had been flown out to all corners of the northhold the very day it had been written. By dusk on the 18th of Sun's Height, every northman knew of the impeding census, and what was expected of him.

They had found their way to the most miserable city in the north as well—Winterhold, still fortunate enough to retain its name from the days before the Fifth Era. One such letter was delivered to the Arch-Mage of the College—that too remained, ancient, stubborn, withstanding, and neutral to the cause of dragons—and yet somehow, it found its way into Pyrus's hands.

Not that he minded. He had read the letter over and over again, until he had memorized it word for word, and the letter was battered and folded in the places where he'd picked it up, dropped it, grabbed at it again to ensure the hand had certainly been written in the slant of the Dragonlord Vylornar himself.

Pyrus was, perhaps, the only person living in the north who looked forward to the day Winterhold would undergo census, and be graced with the presence of Vylornar in the flesh.

It was the thirtieth of Sun's Height at last. No doubt the dragons would soon find their way to the frigid north of the north, and no doubt they would census the College as well. Pyrus folded the well-worn letter and slipped it inside his robes, which he meticulously investigated. They were his finest, deep crimson embroidered with golden, auburn, scarlet—all the colours of fire.

 _And fire is truly grand._ Pyrus extended his upturned palm and effortlessly called a fistful of flames to dance there. He watched the flickering orange and smiled, feeling heat roll gently over his face, outlining his near-elven complexion. _It purifies, it destroys, and when mastered, it is a force indeed to be dreaded._ If dragons were fire made flesh, then what did it make a magician of flame?

He had never understood his fascination for fire—was it its insatiable hunger, its need to consume, devour? Was it the fear and respect it commanded, the power it held? Perhaps it was that, or maybe something more that Pyrus was yet to discover. For now, he contented himself with honing his skills of the flame to absolute perfection, for such a day when he had the opportunity to communicate with real pyromancers, truly great masters of destruction that the College, sadly, lacked.

The greatest were no mere rogues, of course. They were the Dragonlords, and one of the greatest, most renowned and infamous Dragonlords of all was Vylornar himself.

Pyrus snuffed the flames and rose to his feet. His quarters were modest, and the sight of it still filled him with bitterness. _Seventeen years I have studied here,_ he thought, pacing, _and what good has it done me? It has given me the opportunity to certainly perfect the level I was at when I came, a mere boy of the man indeed. But they start to whisper behind my back. They sense my discontent, and they are right._ It was power he had only ever sought, not knowledge; and power was cautiously tempered here in the College of Winterhold.

Pyrus had demonstrated a sensitivity to the flame in his youngest years—being half-Altmer, it was known he would certainly show some degree of magical talent. What his caregivers did not realize was the extent of his sensitivity; it was so strong it almost abolished the human in him, which was good, very good; fire purifies, and Pyrus had always resented the fact he was not pure Altmer, the side he very much favoured. He had grown, to his reasonable content, looking more Altmer than human; his skin was tarnished gold, his physique tall, his ears pointed. But his eyes were a human brown, his speech did not contain the graceful lilt of his halfkin but rather the brazen drawl of humans, and—most humiliatingly—he had to shave often. The scruff that always came out was thick and coarse and tangled umber, a human scruff he detested and took savage pleasure removing at the faintest sign of it.

He preferred his appearance hooded even indoors, though he could not hide his eyes or voice from others. The College still found him 'odd', though they certainly respected, perhaps even feared, his strength in fire. He had come to the College a young man determined to master that element. They had taught him, and he had learned. He had learned very fast, almost too fast for their comfort, yet when they tried to hold back he refused to obey. If they would not teach him, he would learn himself, and for numerous fire abilities he had. When he excelled in all their classes, flawlessly performed all manners of the flame, they had gratefully graduated him; but with nowhere else to go, Pyrus had remained behind, much to their discontent. His experiments were frowned upon, but they were so controlled they could do nothing to banish him.

Pyrus almost laughed at their frustration. They could do nothing, and so he remained—for seventeen dreadfully dull, bleak, useless years, he had studied at the College of Winterhold, student and accomplished mage. Yet he knew there was still so much more to learn; fire was unending, wicked, bold, and he was certain for all his efforts, he had done little but scratch the surface of the secrets it held.

 _Secrets dragons know._

Pyrus pulled out the letter again, read it through, put it away. Oh, he'd accomplished enough in the College to keep him reasonably settled, yet the mages had put a great deal of effort keeping him low in rank, refusing him quarters that he knew befitted a man of his accomplishments. He slept with adepts, and Pyrus knew he was far, far beyond that level. He wanted to be beyond mastery.

He had considered travelling south—yet the rumour was the southern lands were burning. The World-Eater's forces were pillaging the southern provinces whose names none dared utter, for fear of ill luck. Leading those forces were none other than the World-Eater himself, and the Dread, the Dragonborn who turned.

Restless, Pyrus exited his quarters, standing in the Hall of Countenance for a moment. There was great unrest among the other mages, who were no doubt terrified that soon their peaceful little Winterhold would be full of dragons; dragons renowned for their cruelty, their hatred of mortalkind, their despising of the abomination _weakness_.

He felt the fire surging through his being, warming his blood, banishing the chill of Winterhold that persisted even in Sun's Height—the warmest month in all the year. _I am far from weak._ He descended the stairs and stepped into the afternoon.

It was, to his surprise, a clear day, which was close to astonishing. Snow fell eight days a week in Winterhold, and he could almost certainly remember it snowing earlier that morning.

Unless…

He heard a rush of wings and a vast shadow fell across the courtyard. Lesser mages and students gave small shrieks, but Pyrus was immediately hurrying out into the open, searching the sky. He saw the shadow again, and felt an excited quivering in the depths of his stomach. _They're here._

He wasted no more time, progressing straight to the gates. Almost at once he noticed they were hastily being shut. Pyrus wrinkled his nose in disgust at them; the cowards. He stalked forward, robes swishing behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, the instant he was in earshot.

They jumped and stared. Mage apprentices, he saw, wide-eyed and frightened. "Unless you're going out to greet the dragonmen, you're to leave the gate alone, is that understood?" he snarled.

They understood, stepped back. "If you're too craven to see glory in the flesh, get indoors," said Pyrus, "though no doubt you'll be seeing them soon. They've come to census Winterhold, or have you forgotten? That includes the College." Another shadow befell the clearing. Students were running for cover, and the stench of fear mingled with the sharp tang of frost. Throaty roars sounded like fanfares, far and near, their voices carrying for miles on. For Pyrus, he only felt tingles run down his spine, ecstasy fill his mind. The sight of them alone commanded power and respect, for they were greater, and mortals lesser.

Sick of the sight of cowards, Pyrus sent the apprentices away, then swung the gates wide, wide open. The hinges protested, betraying him of his unnoticed departure.

"Pyrus, what are you doing?"

He sighed, impatient. He turned, and his mood grew slightly better. It had been Brangwen who had spoken, his colleague, perhaps the closest he would ever have to a friend.

"You aren't going to meet those dragonmen, are you?" Her pretty golden eyes were very round.

"Why shouldn't I?" Pyrus challenged her. "They're only men. It's the dragons you ought to beware, to respect." He saw them circling the town across the bridge; the day had cleared so suddenly he could see right to the borders of Winterhold beyond, something he had very rarely done. "Besides," he added, "the College ought to have a spokesperson, someone there to welcome Vylornar to Winterhold, or he'd view us as weak. Dragons hate weakness, and what will they see the College as then? Enemy, surely, or weaklings unworthy of living in their world."

"It isn't their world," Brangwen insisted. "They don't deserve what they're given."

"Does it matter?" Pyrus shot back. "Being afraid will do nothing. No hero will rise to protect us, like in the old stories—the last the gods chose is the cause of the chaos that surrounds us now." He spoke of the Dread, the Dragonborn whose name had been cast from history in shame and fear. "If you will not come with me, go back and wait. They will come to the College eventually, but their mood will be better if they have someone to welcome them."

The Bosmer mage bit her lip. "Be careful, Pyrus; this is no ordinary Dragonlord that has come to Winterhold, remember."

 _No, and it is because of that that I am going to meet him._ Pyrus turned away, smiling, then stepped through the gates.

He'd made the walk numerous times across the shattered bridge that hovered seemingly over open air. With the foul weather gone, Pyrus could see the black water churning and frothing below; a taste of the Sea of Ghosts that spanned behind and beyond. The snow looked bright white against the afternoon glare of the sun, painful to look at. Pyrus kept his eyes straight on the town. The dragons were landing on the roofs of houses, sneering and jesting and toying with terrified villagers. Dragonmen were filling out, forming an honourary squadron.

As Pyrus reached the other side, he saw only one dragon had yet to land; a huge copper-coloured one, scales shimmering every colour of red and orange and yellow that was known. Thick black streaks divided the red upper body from the powerful yellow underside, stripes of shadow against the fiery hide. Pyrus could see a figure perched atop its throat in robes of molten scarlet and obsidian black. He was high-collared, long-sleeved, and his peaked hood was drawn. At last the dragon landed in the middle of the thoroughfare, and the figure slid from the saddle, boots crunching in the snow.

The silence was incredible after such a triumphant fanfare.

At last the warden of the north, Themmen Whitegate, stepped into the open, followed by an honourary escort of his own. Pyrus watched them, but in particular he eyed the old man. A dragonman, he claimed, and he held nothing but loyalty to the dragon cause and to his overlord, yet Pyrus had seen him deep in his cups many a time in the city inn, despairing over his hopelessness. It was remarkable why the dragons did not have Whitegate removed and a stronger, openly loyal and far more dangerous dragonman take his place. The north was a bleak place, but it was big, and the best hunting and breeding grounds for Frost Dragons.

" _Drem yol lok_ ," the old man rasped, bowing low before the majesty of the Dragonlord. His draconic was passable, Pyrus decided. "Peace, fire and greetings to you, my lord Vylornar; it is an honour, _Felniirgevild_ is honoured with your presence."

The huge red beast Dragonlord Vylornar had ridden reared its handsome head and growled flawlessly in its guttural tongue. " _Dii joriin bahlok. Kolos hin grunzahhe, wuth jul?_ "

Whitegate faltered, blank of face. "I…I do not…"

"Ausnahyol and his people hunger after the journey," Vylornar interrupted coolly. One hand reached out to stroke the creature's throat. "He wonders if you have any prisoners in the cells."

Whitegate hesitated. "Th-those men, my…my good lord…they have yet to be tr—"

"Then they shall be trialed before dragoneye," Vylornar growled, "and found guilty or innocent by Akatosh Himself." Two dragonmen appeared behind him. "Empty the prisons," said their lord, and they went.

Whitegate mouthed and gaped after them, helpless, then composed himself and turned back. "My lord, the…the city of _Felniirgevild_ is at your disposal."

"Yes," said Vylornar calmly, "it is." He paused. "Begin."

At once the dragonmen sprang into action, and the dragons threw back their heads and roared laughter. Screams erupted from the houses as the doors were bashed down, the townsfolk dragged out howling, from old men to babes. Vylornar turned and muttered something to the great red dragon, and strode away as it took flight, bellowing orders to its kindred.

Pyrus lifted his chin, banished all trace of amazement from his features, and stepped forward.

Vylornar's attention was drawn to him at once. "And who are you, to approach a High Dragonlord, civilian?" There was a disdainful note in his voice Pyrus had heard many times before, when his halfkin had seen him for what he was, and scorned him because of it.

None of that bitterness would be present today, however. Pyrus offered a smile and bowed. "My lord, my name is Pyrus Greatfire. It is my honour to welcome you, most formally, to _Felniirgevild_ and its esteemed College."

As he straightened, he noticed beneath the rim of his hood, Vylornar wore a curious expression. "You have human eyes, kinsman, and a voice to match," he said.

 _Kinsman_ , Pyrus had been called, and he delighted in the word. "Indeed so, but not of my own choosing, my lord," he said. "My mother was raped by a human warrior."

Vylornar curled his lip in apparent disdain. "Humans," he said coldly. "So weak, so vile and full of the most unseemly corruptions; it is what this cause fights to purge, as I'm certain you are well aware of."

"That I am, my lord," said Pyrus, gladdened that his meeting with the legendary Vylornar, oft called 'the Firestorm' by his defeated enemies, was going so perfectly. "While the College has decreed to stay neutral to your cause, know that I respect and greatly admire your efforts to render a newer and better world anew." He had practiced the words so many times that they came easily to his tongue—but it was a lie, or half a one. The true reason he found the cause so entertaining was just how much respect and power they wielded and drew from all beings of Tamriel.

His words had worked on Vylornar. "You have a human voice but an elven tongue," he said, "and a grace to match. It is a relief that I speak to one as educated as you." He dipped his head in a shallow bow. "You wear fine robes, almost too fine for your College—unless the standards there have changed to what I last recalled it."

"And what do you last recall it as, my lord?"

"A human, piteous and mewling, was titled Arch-Mage. Of course," said Vylornar, "humans never tend to last long in general."

"That is true, my lord," said Pyrus lightly. "Whatever happened to the human Arch-Mage, we are governed now, and have been for the past two decades, by Othalos Miden, a mage considered esteemed in his selected branch of magic." He had met the Arch-Mage himself once or twice, though the Dunmer preferred the company of his books to that of aspiring colleagues.

"You shall have to acquaintance me with him," said Vylornar, "but I wonder, what school do you claim to specialize in, Pyrus Greatfire?"

"The name gives it away," said Pyrus, bowing low. "Destruction, my lord, is my favouring—but more especial, fire."

"Fire," repeated Vylornar, and he sounded amused. "The dragons shall be gladdened to hear it."

"Dragons _are_ fire, my lord; I doubt they will be glad of anything ordinarily below them."

Vylornar laughed. "You speak well indeed, Pyrus! Though I should like to see you play tongues with Ausnahyol."

The name was young and familiar. "Your dragon, am I correct, my lord?"

"In his own; merely my wingsteed and friend in battle." Vylornar turned his sights to the bridge spanning to the College. "But perhaps we would talk more over mulled wine. I shall allow my men to attend to the census in the present; it is hardly an important thing, measuring the breeding rate of human swine, only that my glorious overlord insists it, that we may know how many his subjects may be free to devour to ensure his reign of fear is unchallenged."

Pyrus, expecting this of this mastered Dragonlord and close hand of the World-Eater himself, cunningly matched his contemptuous arrogance. "I would hope you lingered a little in the College, my lord," he said, "for the company there is dreary, and it has been too long since the old stone was last honoured with presences such as yours." _Teach me your secrets,_ he thought, _and give me the opportunity of fire. Fire, my lord Vylornar, for though I am no dragon, I wish to be fire made flesh._

 **d|b**


	6. V - The Slayer

_The Dragonborn remembered an order that was certain to prove a serious threat. Before his betrayal was made known, he found and murdered those he had once called friend. Their blood stained Alduin's Wall and sealed death upon the prophecy he had forsaken in the name of power._

 _The greatest soldiers that opposed dragonkind appeared vanquished for good._

 **d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

The ale was strong and scorching as it went down.

Coughing, Nurr worked hard not to bring it back up again. He slammed the tankard down and doubled up over the counter, whiskers tingling, jaws clenched tight. _I will not do it again,_ he told himself firmly, _not again, I won't, not again…_ Yet the tankard was there, his throat was parched, and the rim was at his lips.

Somewhere behind him came a voice, sharp and frustrated. "Whoa there, soldier; I think you've had more than enough of that." Someone tried to pry the mug from his fingers; with a faint hiss of annoyance, he tightened his grip. The figure gave up with an annoyed spit. "Suit yourself, cat." Then they were away again, leaving him to his thoughts and his drink.

It appeared the latter was interfering with the former, however. Still, dark ale was the sustenance he always needed to deal with the pain.

"Hey." Another voice intervened. Nurr glanced over his shoulder. Someone sat down beside him, eyes held tight. "Brother, I think you've had more than enough." A hand reached out to gently grasp his wrist.

The drink was making him stupid. Nurr blinked a few times, then recognized the fair-haired Imperial who sat at his side. Slowly he turned back to face the dark stone wall beyond the counter. "I'm not interested in…" His stomach lurched. "…another lecture." He feebly moved his arm. "And don't touch me."

"Don't play that on me, I know full well where you ache." Unsmiling, Lionus tapped three fingers on Nurr's shoulder, who winced and hissed with pain. "You know, you ought to get your wounds seen to," Lio went on, clasping his hands on the counter, "before stopping in Eagle's Rest for a drink."

Nurr curled his lip and drank to dull the risen ache. "You know I always stop here."

"Yes. That's how I found you."

Lio spared a look around the tavern, and Nurr felt obliged to do the same. It was becoming a familiar sight, the interior of the Troll's Tankard, the quiet slur of frightened townsfolk drowning their sorrows and worries, the gentle chords of the bard singing softly on his lute. The inn in the mountain village of Eagle's Rest was perhaps the only successful establishment, second to the blacksmith. Drunk and surly, Nurr turned away, staring into the depths of his near-drained tankard. _Yes, these people who stare at me as if I'm a freak. A Khajiit, deep in his cups. It's strange, isn't it? Go on then, stare, don't care that I risked my very life for you, and continue to do so with my very existence._

It was as though Lio had read his mind. "You know they're not meant to know. It's for our own good, and their own good."

Nurr rolled his eyes and favoured an elbow. "Spies, aye. Don't we know?"

"Voice down, damn it." Lio spoke so pleasantly one could hardly mistake him for unusual behaviour. Then again, he was human, so it was easier for him.

That wasn't what troubled Nurr in particular. These days he always got this way after a lair raid. The drink helped him forget—and deal with the pain. He'd done it again, killed it, but not before sustaining another wound in the process. His shoulder had been caught in a death throe and nearly death-thrown him off the bloody mountain. That was too close a call. He hoped to have forgotten the incident come morning.

"Come on." Lio leaned close, until Nurr felt obliged to look into the Imperial's concerned brown eyes. "Come back with me, brother. The others are already starting the celebrations. One more down."

Nurr smiled wryly. "Only a million, ten thousand and sixty-four to go." He drank.

"Still." Lio made to tap the shoulder and Nurr flinched instinctively. "I think you ought to have it seen to. Don't you recall the last time you avoided having it attended? Or did you drown that in ale as well?"

"I'll be fine, Lio. Haven't I always?"

"Yes, but, a man's luck has to run out sometime."

The door opened. Both men looked over their shoulders, and though one was drunk, both detected danger in a heartbeat. Three men, sodden-clothed, hooded and cloaks drawn tight about them, stumbled in from the rainfall that seemed to have started outside. Silence fell briefly. Did the townsfolk sense it, the danger?

Of course they wouldn't; they turned back, oblivious to the threat that had just stridden into the establishment they considered haven.

"You still count, Dark Moon?" Lio muttered.

"I'm not that drunk." Nurr clenched an unseen fist. "Three. Outnumbered."

"You've killed with one shot." They watched the dragonmen throw back their hoods, call for ale, look for seats. "So long as you don't draw attention to yourself…"

"Don't draw attention." Nurr snorted into his cup. "A Khajiit archer cloaked and armoured. Even the commons can't stop staring."

Lio adopted a sincere expression. "Then you know what's coming."

"Yes." Nurr downed the last of his ale. "I'm not doing it thirsty."

The dragonmen approached, and out of the corner of his eye Nurr studied them. Definite dragonmen, but plainclothes at this time; it was the best outfit for commons spies. One was balding, stubble on his chin, a huge pink scar across his cheek. The other two looked plain enough. One had a cut lip that looked still to be healing, eyes set deep beneath a heavy brow, and he looked about him furtively, his jaw jutting out. The last looked young, bless him, almost a lad, but he had the eyes of a killer.

Simply put, all three were dangerous.

Nurr looked remorsefully into his empty tankard.

"Pardon me, friends." The scarred one was speaking, his voice a heavy rasp. "Are you expecting company?"

"Not at all. We're about to leave ourselves." Nurr let Lio do the talking; strange humans trusted strange humans certainly more than they did strange Betmer.

"Oh?" They sat, the scarface close to Lio, the other two apart, listening and watchful. Nurr kept his eyes down but his ears pricked. "At this hour?"

"Aye," said Lio pleasantly, "the night's the safest to travel, with the dragons asleep."

"Ah, so we all believe." Nurr could hear the smile in the scarface's voice. The dragonman repeated his request for ale, and leered at the serving girl as she hastened to fill his order. "Of course," the fellow went on, mild arrogance slipping into his tone, "we've had our fair share of encounters with dragons. Them beasts can certainly see better in the dark than we norm give credit for."

"Ambushed on the roadside, have you been?" said Lio.

"You could call it that." The scarface chuckled as though he knew something the other didn't. Nurr wanted to grin at that, but years of experiencing dragonmen had taught him to keep a perfectly straight face when he didn't want to be noticed. "Anyway," the fellow went on, "where is it you'd be off to?"

"Careful now," said Lio mildly, "it won't do any of us good to go about sharing secrets."

The scarface grunted. "So you two ain't freeriders. Only men in the world who say where they're going, without the hostility of a cautious man."

"No." Lio gestured to his throat. "You see a fox pin anywhere, sir?"

"Not at all," the scarface said. "Still, you bear the look of one well-worn traveller; the both of you." Nurr felt his eyes on him, and his fur prickled. He fought to flatten it, stared harder into the darkness of his empty cup, wishing sorely it was full again. "Makes me wonder…where is it you travel to?"

"I don't believe it's any concern of yours." Lio's tone was light, yet Nurr detected the hidden warning. _He's onto us._

"Ah, forgive a weary man." The scarface smiled as the girl returned. She set the mugs down and departed hurriedly. The former grasped the handle of his tankard and drank deeply. "The road has been long and plaguing, and we are tired."

"As are we," said Lio, voice carefully empty. "If the hour is late, it is best we depart and make good ground, I think, before we must stop for the night."

"And yet you refuse the comfortable establishment this inn has to offer." The scarface's eyes roved Lio's armour, then Nurr's. "You two are clearly wealthy men. The make is unfamiliar to me. Who was the smith?"

"The name escapes me," said Lio, rising, "but someone in Markarth, I don't doubt. With all the rock and ore, there's a small army of them in the city alone." He tossed a few septims onto the counter. Payment for Nurr's drink. He shot him an amused glance at that. "The beds here will be full enough if you three intend to stay the night. My friend and I will take our leave."

"Oh, is that right?" The scarface was eyeing them hard now, and Nurr lifted his gaze and returned it. The two others had lifted their eyes, their drinks untouched, stone-cold and sober. "But we've barely begun." Very slowly, the scarface rose. He was a tall man, Nurr noticed, and the façade was starting to slip from his features. "Barely."

"Begun what?" asked Lio, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

The scarface noticed. He followed the hand and grunted, smirking. "Go on, then." His hand slid to a dagger tucked into his belt. "Pull it out. Show me your steel. Show me its make. I'm a curious man."

Lio tilted his head just a little. "As you wish."

The katana flew so fast it was a silver blur, and cut a fresh scar across the dragonman's face.

He fell back, howling, and the inn erupted into chaos.

As the other two dashed, hoping to surprise them, Nurr grasped his tankard and brought it swinging around into the heavy face of the nearest. He fell back, clutching at a broken nose, while the lad lunged with a dagger aimed at Lio's plated heart. Easily the latter deflected it, cut a wound on the fellow's unarmoured hand and disarmed him. He pulled the collar close and leveled the tip of the katana under his jaw.

"Spy," he said.

"Blade," growled the other, and kicked.

Lio staggered and the inn drowned in screams, people fighting to get to the doors, running even as the dragonmen, unmasked, lunged at the exposed warriors. Nurr fell on the man with the broken nose, his heavier weight pinning him, and closed his gauntleted hands around his enemy's throat, and tightened. Behind him Lio had engaged in swordplay with the scarface.

The choking man scrabbled for life, clutching and pounding at Nurr's wrists, then reaching up to his face. Nurr growled and jerked his chin up, saving his eyes from the desperate clawing nails. Suddenly a huge weight was thrown on his back and he reared, snarling, the lad's arms wrapped tight around _his_ throat. Senses spinning, Nurr clenched his fist and dug his elbow hard into the lad's ribs. He grunted but didn't let go, despite his bleeding hand, to his merit.

Desperate now, Nurr hurled the both of them into the counter, immediately to face the dagger point of the man two seconds ago he had tried to strangle. The dagger flashed and Nurr heaved himself to the side. The cold steel bit into the flesh of the unarmoured lad clinging to his back. He shrieked then, finally releasing his victim and Nurr stumbled free, drawing deep breaths and steadying the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him.

Yet being drunk and disturbed only seemed to make him angry, very angry.

He stumbled forward, then caught himself and faced the two dragonmen. The lad was clutching at his side, blood welling fast over his hand, a pale, shocked expression on his face, while the ugly one was spitting curses. Nurr slowly shook his head at them both, then clenched his fists and advanced. He'd been trained in the basics of hand-to-hand combat; though it wasn't his preferred system of weaponry, it was pretty quick to subdue the two dragonmen. A fist in the face put the ugly one's lights out; he grappled briefly with the lad, but his injury was harrying him and quickly Nurr won over. When the both of them lay slumped on the floor, quite lifeless, Nurr turned his attention to the scarface.

He had Lio's katana embedded through his ribs.

Lio withdrew it, and the scarface sank to the floor, blood blossoming over his shirt like a gruesome red flower. "Time to go," the Imperial said, wiping the katana clean on the dying man's shirt.

Nurr wasted no time proceeding to the door, stumbling a little on the way. Lio caught up, straightened him, and shoved the both of them out into the rainstorm. The sun had long set by this point, and it was so dark, and Nurr so drunk, he could hardly see their horses tethered off in the sheltered stables. He yanked up the hood of his cloak, hissing with displeasure as the sobering water splashed on his face, drenching his fur, rattling off the quiver strapped fast on his back.

Lio cut their mounts free and dragged them out into the rain, and then they were galloping back through Eagle's Rest and out the back gates into the mountains. It was only when they'd reached the top of the steep mountain path, their horses struggling and stumbling on the slippery road of mud and grit, that Nurr heard the worst news.

"Best harden up here; I doubt we can ever return to Eagle's Rest."

Nurr realized this just now with the rain splashing over his nose. At the truth of it, he seized the reins again in a new and most bitter anger. "Alduin be damned. Just when I was getting fond of that ale."

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: And there you have it - the five POVs that tell the tale of Alduin's Tamriel!**

 **Honestly, this chapter was my long-time running favourite to write. Maybe it still is. While I possess an unhealthy love for all my characters big and small, Nurr is something quite different, and quite special. I mean, what's not to love about a Khajiit? What's not to love about a Khajiiti bowslinging outlaw dragonslayer?**

 **But perhaps you prefer another... I'd love to hear which of the characters is your personal favourite so far, so either through review or through the new poll posted (or both, if you'd like to give me an early birthday present), I'm dying to learn!**


	7. VI - Serpent's Kiss

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

"There's your mark." Janquil's voice floated past her ear, and Viper knew where to look.

She saw her target almost at once; he was certainly the most distinctive character at this deceitfully mild little dinner party thrown in his grand and majestic honour. Ollos Dragonlord, renowned for his unspeakable cruelty, his wickedness that had won even the dragons over. He was dressed in golden-and-black finery that greatly accentuated his coldly handsome Dunmeri face, the scarlet in his slanted eyes, the ebony of his tied-off hair and knotted beard, and the purple pendant beneath his throat.

Viper herself was dressed most agreeably, and since she'd entered the party, pressing the forged invitation into the bouncer's hand, men had been goggling her. She couldn't blame them; she'd taken especial care to make herself look especially entrancing. She'd perfected the gift for that. A mistress of seduction, she'd even swallowed her pride for religion and blessed the old god Dibella to guide her body that night, to draw the eyes of even the heartless dragonman. Perhaps She'd answered her prayers. The dress helped, low-cut to hint at her neat breasts, the length and slenderness of her limbs, her gracefully slanted face and bright green eyes that missed nothing. She'd let her hair down and it tumbled thickly to the small of her back, a mass of deepest brown. Men were eyeing her, wanting her. The only thing she had truly taken care to hide was her symbol, the coiling black serpent tattooed on the underside of her left wrist. She wore long gloves to hide it, the fingers cut off to allow her sensitive tips to add to her charm, dancing over a man's skin. Tonight, they would not be slipping into pockets.

She twitched them, the only sign of her apprehension. Ollos in the flesh was a cold, cruel sight. Everything about him spoke of his power, his elvish pride. She was, for the first time in her life, glad she was Breton, and not wholly human. Bretons had elvish blood, however faint, and perhaps, just perhaps, luck would be on her side and it would help.

Janquil, born and raised in Morrowind high courts, had given advice on the long journey to Servitude in Dunmer male seduction. "They love playing with words," she'd whispered, "so speak well. Subtlety of the flesh, I find they enjoy. They have the patience to feel it through. Perhaps this serpent can whisper her way into a dragon's bitter heart."

The Dunmer thief was here now, and she paused at her side. She was a graceful creature, utterly soundless even when she was not on the job, all height and slenderness. Her dark hair was tied up in a formal headdress worn in Morrowind, dark sapphires glinting at her throat on a silver chain, an elegant ashen-cobalt dress flowing from her shoulders. She looked different in noble's finery than her well-worn black Guild leathers, and without her favoured daggers immediately visible. Her lips came close to Viper's ear, and her eyes flickered over Ollos beyond.

"Be gentle with him," she whispered. "Do what you must; I will be watching in case he sees the snake in the grass."

"For now, I am hidden, and he knows nothing." Viper offered a small smile and fought down the last of her hesitation. _What I do, I do for the Guild. He may be affiliated with dragons, but certainly deep down he is still a man, with a man's hungry desires._ "Men like mystery in alluring women. They savour finding it."

Janquil smiled, looking half the serpent herself. "Give him a hint." And in the blink of an eye she had vanished into the throng of gushing, frightened nobles.

Viper did not bother looking for the Dunmer. When Janquil blended, it was impossible to find her; it only increased her distant suspicion that the Dunmer was more closely linked to Lady Nocturnal than she ever let on. She pushed the thoughts of the Daedra from her mind and called on her skills, her talent. She ran her tongue delicately over her lips; her poison was there, ready, potent, waiting. She'd brewed it fresh only that morning. It would be dangerously potent, even on a Dragonlord.

She found her forked tongue and knew she was ready. She slid easily through the few who stepped across from her, and even before she'd fully emerged into the open his eyes were on her, penetrating her. She met them, boldly, slyly.

"My lord," she greeted.

Ollos was listening, stripping her with his glinting scarlet gaze. "My lady, I do not believe we have met."

He spoke politely, courteously, and ever so familiarly. Viper smiled. _He names himself Dragonlord, yet here before me stands a serpent in a man's skin._ This would be easier than she'd thought. "Perhaps, perhaps not," she said, stepping closer. He was tall, and she had to look up into his eyes, yet she knew she had his fullest attention. "Does it matter? We have met now."

Ollos was unsmiling, but his eyes were curious, searching mildly. "Do you know who I am, my lady?"

Viper hardly paused. "I know many men," she said softly, "and I've heard of even more. I could tell you what you expect to hear, or I could tell you what you want to hear."

"How do you know what I want?" There was a glint in his expression, a challenge.

Viper rose to it. "Men, in the end, want the same thing." She lifted her chin, lowered her arms, adjusted her position ever so slightly. _A hint._ His eyes caught it. "Desire it. It fascinates me, how strong it burns in them."

His lips twitched. "And do they ever get it, my lady?"

"That's for me to know, my lord."

"Shall I find out?"

He was toying with her, testing her—a cleverly dangerous man. "If you desire." She smiled, narrowing her eyes so he surely must have caught only a glint of the green. A hint was, perhaps, all that stirred most men; if she pressed closely enough, she'd feel it, pressing, hardening. Ollos was yet to be swayed; this she had expected.

His hand started following the contour of her arm. The touch sent shivers through her, even when she was prepared. "So what do you see in me, my lady?" he asked, still courteous, yet the challenge was coming into his voice. A dangerous challenge. _The serpent is in the dragon's mouth; one wrong flicker of its tongue, and the jaws shall close around it._

Viper narrowed her eyes to hide her thoughts. She saw many things in this man, this Dragonlord who flayed terrified men and boiled the brave ones. "It depends," she murmured, leaning just a little closer, and his eyes studied her face, hand rested to her shoulder. "You want me to see the Dragonlord, and the infamous deeds he has done over the years." His eyes narrowed; calmly she continued. "You want me to fear him, and yet…there is more to him, more than meets the eye and impression." Her finger rested lightly upon his collarbone. It brushed against the chain, and it took near all her willpower to keep her eyes fixed firmly upon the scarlet gaze ensnaring her, studying her. "I entrance most men," she murmured, softer still, "by lifting their masks of persona they wear…" She traced up his throat, along his jawbone, sharp and smooth beneath her fingers. "…and seeing the man beneath it."

He took her hand before she could lower it, and his grip was frightfully strong. Viper glanced, startled, and for an instant the spell was broken. It would be only in vain to tug her fingers free. The eyes bored into her, red as blood, as suffering, as desire. His face hardly changed, his eyes gave nothing away. But they were full of curiosity, and something more, something darker, monstrous.

"What cunning creature are you?" he said quietly, dangerously.

Viper forced her eyes. _Do not dare turn your back. It is your death if you do._ "An ambitious woman," she whispered, relaxing, focusing. "A desiring woman. A curious woman."

"Ambition and desire." He pulled her closer. "Something I have not seen in a woman the likes of you before."

"You see it now." She smiled. She had not yet lost her bargain, though for an instant she had stumbled. His guard was up. She had to lower it, yet he was growing intrigued, intrigued in the mystery she had painted around herself. Ever so subtly, she pressed herself into him, her leg revealing itself just a little more. "It warms the soul and ignites the blood."

"Ah…" His hand gripped tighter, almost painful. "That, my lady, it does."

"And you would know, of course."

"Oh, of course I would know." Closer, closer, his lips came, and they brushed against her ear, smiling just a little as they spoke. "Dragonlords, my lady, are masters of just that. It is what connects us with the dragons. It is what they respect; the heat of our ambition, the fire that drives us—desire of power, it is the bondage between us frail mortals and the immortal power that is _dovah_." His thumb pressed against her cheekbone, fingers against her throat, forcing her head up, her neck exposed to him. "Your flesh is warm," he breathed. "You're shaking, my lady." He was smiling visibly as he withdrew his head so she could meet his eyes once more. "Are you frightened of me?" His voice was but a low growl.

 _He is hungry for me._ The smile Viper gave him was founded of triumph. "Is it fear you desire of me," she whispered, "or my flesh?"

His hand traced her throat, followed the shapeliness of her body, and pressed hard against her hip. " _Both_ ," he answered, and the hunger in Ollos's eyes became something close to bestial. It nearly frightened her, but she had seen expressions of the like in lesser men's eyes.

Then his nails dug into her wrist and he pulled her from the party, so suddenly Viper nearly betrayed surprise at it. He pulled her into a room that seemed barely ten paces away, dark and disused. It was a storeroom, what she saw of it briefly as he pulled her inside, closed the door, pulled the lock, and turned on her there. Ollos was a man, but he had a dragon's hunger. He grasped her in his powerful hands, a locking grip for the sake of the pendant swinging at his throat, she did not attempt to escape. Smiling, her poisoned lips welcomed his unknowing, and she held him as hard as his hands grasped her, backing her into a sack of barley so she was on her back and he was above. His eyes glinted such a fierce, fiery red, for a moment Viper thought she saw into the eyes of the creatures he served.

 _Desire_ , she knew. How powerful, how driving and corrupting desire could be.

His hands were ripping at her dress, but Viper was not afraid. He had barely torn the strap on her shoulder when the venom of the serpent began to play. Suddenly his eyes were round with surprise, his hands fumbled, his desires turned into bewilderment as his body lost all strength and willingness to respond. Grinning, Viper flipped him easily so it was him who was beneath her. He tried to rise but did not move an inch. His breathing came quick and shallow, and yet, paralyzed, he spoke so courteously, though his eyes shone with fury.

"You should beware her," Viper whispered, leaning close, "the serpent who coils in the hearts of men." Gently she pressed her hand against his throat. "Hush now, my lord; the stiller you stay, the easier the red tears will come."

A soft sigh of recognition flickered from Ollos's throat. "Viper," he breathed. "Stealer of the hearts of men."

"It is not your dragon's heart I have come for." Her hands closed around the pendant over his collarbone. Easy as she pleased, she removed it from his paralyzed person. "Apologies if I offend, my lord," she said, smiling wickedly, "but business is business."

Ollos's eyes flashed. "Who?"

"Does it matter?" Viper slipped the pendant into her pocket. "I would think you to be grateful at this point," she hissed, finger pressed against his lips, "that despite all I have heard you have done, Dragonlord Ollos, my organization does not deal in murder."

"Then you are a fool." Ollos spoke weakly, yet the dragonfire in his eyes unnerved her. His flesh was boiling beneath her touch. "You will have all you have heard of me when I find you, thief. I promise you, your fate is sealed, and your serpent's tongue I will have out first."

Viper rose, smiling to mask her rising fear. "If you remember me."

Ollos tried to speak, and failed as the muscles tightened around his throat. He choked for breath, gasping. His eyes grew redder and redder, until it leaked down his face in thick crimson tears. Viper smiled wickedly at the sight of him, the blood covering his cheeks in dark scarlet streaks, then turned to the door. _The serpent removes herself from the blinded dragon's maw._

She stepped back into the party, and only then did she remember the torn strap on her dress. She quietly closed the door and, dignified, yet seething with terror and triumph all at once, stalked from the room, the pendant pressed tightly against her skin.

"Janquil," she whispered, and the Dunmer was at her side at once.

"You have it?"

Viper gave the smallest of nods. "We have a few hours—"

"We have no time." Janquil's eyes were alert. "The alarm has been raised in silence. Dragonmen stand guard on the gates. We've been tipped off, they know you're in attendance." Fear shot through Viper, real, genuine fear, but she forced it below, kept it beneath her skin. "They don't know about me. The pendant, quick; I stand a better chance of escape, if the one of us should be met with the challenge."

Viper pressed it into the beckoning palm. "What about me?"

"I suspected this would happen." Janquil took her arm and led her deeper into a knot of nobles. "I came with a precaution. This would never have been easy; outside is a man hooded and waiting, an ally of ours. He'll get you to safety."

"Who is he?"

"An old colleague of mine." Janquil clasped her hand. "Vi, trust me on this, on my word as a Guildsister."

Viper saw armoured men moving gracefully through the crowd. Searching.

She nodded.

"Good. Make your way to the upper landing, the stairs across the room. There'll be an unlocked window facing the wall and the bay beyond it. Below will be our waiting friend. I'm sure you can manage that."

"Of course."

"Then we'll see each other soon."

And she had gone.

Viper wasted no time. She saw the stairs over the heads of bobbing guests, and the glint of armour all around her. She slid past bodies, pulled her hair over her shoulder to hide the dangling strap, and quiet as thought she made her way to the stairs. Dragonmen were everywhere, searching, gradually growing rougher, muttering in voices rising in anger. One turned towards the room she and Ollos had disappeared into. There was no more time. She hurried to the steps and soundlessly hurried up them, and the party was below her in seconds.

Whether anyone had noticed her departure…

Fear was heightening her senses. She clung to her Guildsister's words as though drowning. She found the window, the lock on it skillfully picked. She opened it wide and looked low. A strand of ivy, crawling up the stone, would serve well enough as a ladder. Without hesitation she swung herself over the sill, feet quickly finding niches in the stone that would be enough to take her weight. Swiftly she scurried down, hating the restriction of movement the dress offered her. When she was low enough to the ground she dropped, landing catlike on all fours.

It was as she straightened that the shadows moved. Viper turned quickly. They parted to reveal a man, a hooded man.

"She said you'd be faster," he said. "Come, my dear. Dragonmen search the streets for the snake with her poisonous kiss."

Shouting erupted from upstairs. "This way," the hood whispered, and disappeared into the darkness. Viper followed.

He led her into the discreet corner of the courtyard. When he was certain they were out of sight, he placed one foot on a cracked cobble and stomped twice. Instantly he was answered; a section of the ground was lifted and pushed aside, and a face appeared, beckoning.

Viper did not need to be told. She swung herself over the edge, her feet finding rungs, and she scurried down the ladder into welcoming shadow.

 **d|b**


	8. VII - Vaxnilz

_Nobody is quite sure when or how freeriders came into existence, or how one even becomes a messenger of the people. They are a bannerless brotherhood and function best in perpetual solitude. They adorn fox pins as a badge of office._

 _As constant travellers, they exempt themselves from city law and the protection of the hold's wardens. Dragons freely hunt them, although freeriders prove notoriously hard to treat as prey._

 _Despite their reclusive and widespread natures, freeriders are aware of those like them, and any attempt of impersonation is quickly recognized and quietly dealt with._ _However, as they swear complete neutrality between sides, there is no need, for freeriders will serve anyone, so long as they are appropriately paid._

 **d|b**

 **-Ross-**

Despite his hatred of them, Ross had to admit; dragons had a definite sense of style.

After they sacked Whiterun in the dawn of the Fifth Era, alongside the countless other cities and towns and settlements in Skyrim, the surrendered, enslaved mortals were set to rebuilding it. They'd done a magnificent job of it, too; on the ashes of the old Whiterun, the new, _Ahgelingrah_ , had risen in its place, a phoenix of wood and stone yet born like the legend in fire and death. Even from a distance Ross was taken in by its grandeur.

As the heart of the province, _Ahgelingrah_ was, no doubt, the most concentrated in activity of both enslaved mortals and dragonmen alike. And the dragons, too; they loved the vast, open wilderness the valley offered them, the rich concentration of prey in the golden grass, how in the sun men seemed to breed twice as fast, twice as numerously; Ross felt it was safe to say that _Ahgelingrah_ was around thrice as large in population as any other city in Skyrim.

He spurred his horse into a gallop, crossing through the old earth tracks that led to the distant city upon the hill. _Ahgelingrah_ was surrounded for miles on all sides by farms, farms of all kinds; livestock farms, vegetable farms, fruit orchards, and some the dragons nastily named human farms, and occasionally descended to take their picking if they could not be bothered to hunt. Ross rode past such one unfortunate farm, a burned and blackened shell, the earth stained with cinders and charred things with a terrible smell. He tried not to think of what they were too hard. He'd seen sights like this many times before, but it did nothing to quell the sense of sorrow that rose in him. Anything built beneath mortal influence was despised in the proud, malevolent beings who ruled Tamriel.

The sight of a traveller drew a few interested eyes. Ross was used to that as well. Farmers and children and even their animals stopped in what they were doing to stare as he rode past, his mount kicking up a cloud of brown dust in his wake. Even at predawn they were all active. It was safest to work at dusk and dawn, and even into the night, where they lessened the chance of attracting a dragon's attention. It was the time when the children could play in relative peace, a sight that gladdened any weary soul. Cantering past a fenced-in field, he saw two boys riding Skyrim-bred horses. At the sight of him, they spurred their steeds into gallops and tried to ride with him, but Ross's mount was born of the south, favouring speed than strength, and soon the boy riders were left in the dust. He felt their gazes follow him and hoped he had not inspired either to become freeriders. No doubt they'd caught a glimpse of his fox pin.

The farms furthest from _Ahgelingrah_ were the safest. Dawn crept over the province and soon Ross's path was lit with a feeble glow that progressively grew stronger. Stars winked out above his head, and the atmosphere of peace changed dramatically into guarded caution. He saw more angry faces than interested ones, though whenever he felt threatened he touched the base of his throat, gesturing to his fox pin. _Freerider_ , he reminded them, and those who thought him a dragonman immediately stepped back. Even the lowest-born knew that freeriders took no sides, firmly neutral between mortal and dragon. They were too valuable to dispose of.

At last, when the distant dragonsong grew louder and more frequent, as dragons far and closer began to stir to hunt, the stables of _Ahgelingrah_ drew into sight. It was a welcome one. Ross guided his sweating horse into the corral, where at once he was besieged by a pair of overenthusiastic stablehands, a ragged boy and girl. They looked astonished at the sight of him, though they were in their teens and old enough to know staring wasn't polite. Smiling, Ross flicked them both a septim each. They thanked him warmly and swiftly led his horse into the underground stalls, burrowed beneath the city, where a hungry dragon couldn't attack their charges.

Ross was glad to stretch the cramps in his legs. He'd ridden hard from Hillhaven, determined to reach Ahgelingrah by morning. He was prompt, of course; it paid to be just that in these times. To not know your route was almost certain death. Fortunately this journey had been a more peaceful kind. He'd hardly needed to use his crossbow.

He turned to walk the sheltered trail into the city.

"That a fox pin, lad?"

Ross turned. The stablemaster hobbled over to him, his missing leg supported by a rough-hewn crutch.

"Bless me eyes, it is!" He grinned, genuinely pleased. "Here I thought we'd seen the last of you messengers."

"Greetings, sir." Ross shook the stablemaster's free hand. "I've business in _Ahgelingrah_. I trust you can tend to the needs of my horse?"

"Certainly. Fine thing you had there. Looked fast."

"He is, an invaluable specimen to any traveller." Ross was rather proud of his steed. "Make sure you feed him on barley, the best you can provide. He'll take fruit as well, if there's any to spare, but give him none that's gone off or rotten. Rub the sweat off him, provide him warm water—not cold—and walk him round this corral a few times at midday. He gets restless if he doesn't move for long periods."

The stablemaster bobbed his head. "I'll see all that is done, sir. You'll be paying after you leave the city?"

"Yes, which will be at dusk tonight. I don't intend staying long enough to attract unfriendly eyes."

"Then where?"

"Most likely I'll receive some more messages that need delivering, and that'll dictate where I travel next. If not, I'll ride for the stonehold. No doubt the folk there have need of a messenger."

"So you're available?" the stablemaster asked hopefully.

Ross smiled. "I'm available even when contracted. What service may I be to you?"

"I've a son, sir, in the greenwood south o' here…Tallas, that's the name, Tallas. Lumberjack, he is, but he just got married to this pretty lass. Course, thanks to them dragonmen, I couldn't go and see them make their bonds of matrimony." The stablemaster stared blackly at the stump of his leg, and spat into the grass. "So all I can do is offer 'em a gift. Would you…?"

"Of course." Ross liked hearing the stories behind each delivery. It was the reprieve he had with his task, the only reminder of humanity struggling to survive, but survived still.

Payment exchanged hands, and Ross instructed the stablemaster to slot his package into his horse's saddlebags. "The black one on his left, not the brown on his right. I use a different saddle pack for each different delivery. Consistency is a dangerous friend to any man, particularly to freeriders."

Then he was away, ascending the road to _Ahgelingrah_ with his thoughts set to the delivery from Hillhaven. Salda, Ross recalled, was the name of the awaiting receiver, a fruitseller in the commons market. As the sunlight strengthened he reached the gates. The fox pin was enough for the dragonmen guards to permit him grudging entrance, and then the city was all around him. Yet again he was reminded of the dragons' style.

Houses of wood and stone rose all around him, from shabby shack-like hovels to comfortable little cottages, complete with gardens of grass and even a flower bush or two. The streets were white with cobbles. Even in the early morning the city was active. Smoke rose thickly from every chimney, the sound of footsteps, chatter, clanking armour and hammers blurred into one familiar haze, and when Ross drew breath he detected the same old stinks of a city built a hundred years ago on ash and dust. Pulling his cloak more tightly over his shoulders, Ross made his way into the streets, searching for the commons market, and an inn to quell his thirst, and more work.

But he hadn't taken more than five steps when Ross realized there was something different than what he remembered of _Ahgelingrah_.

The atmosphere seemed tenser, full of excitement, sharp and sudden things that pricked at Ross's travel-honed instincts. It could only mean something new had gripped this city of slaves and loyalists, something that had set this place on edge. Ross looked around. Had he missed something? He thought the census had already passed over this city; wasn't Vylornar in Winterhold right now? Yet there were more dragons than he remembered darkening the skies, and their calls grew louder and angrier. The dragonmen looked continually at the sun, as though expecting something.

Careful not to quite dismiss this oddity, Ross made his way into the commons market.

It was named simply as the place where the farmers and servants of the dragonmen collected food and made a scrabbled living. Already it was packed. Merchants shouted their wares in booming voices, people stood and talked with a hand securely around their purses, children ran and played among the forest of moving legs. A few noticed him and stared at his pin in astonishment, though they never were able to stare for long. Ross had a lovely habit of frequently disappearing among people. Each time a dragon passed overhead the crowd fell deathly silent, and were quick to resume chatter when the menacing shadow had disappeared. It was normal to Ross, though the frequency of the dragons was not.

Gradually he heard a woman's voice, publishing prices for apples.

 _Salda_ , he thought, and proceeded to her stall.

Salda was a modest woman, perhaps a few years younger than Ross's client. She had thick brown hair bundled up into a busy ponytail, a face that spoke of the hard times she'd been born into, and a gift of charming her customers with a white smile. She turned at Ross's approach; she was sharp, too. A useful skill for both merchant and traveller.

Her eyes almost at once found the pin at his throat. "Freerider," she commented, eyebrows quirking. "You've chosen a fine day to arrive in _Ahgelingrah_."

Ross gave a small smile. "And why is that?"

Salda blinked. "Haven't you heard? One of those Raiders in the east has been dragged all the way from the easthold over here. The execution's this morning, and all are 'invited' to attend." Her lip curled. "No doubt what they really mean. If we aren't present we show no loyalty to the dragon cause we so _nobly_ serve."

Ross frowned. "I shan't be in attendance, then. I take no sides."

"Mark my words, you'll be doing just that soon enough," Salda warned. "Sooner or later the dragons will turn their attention to the few rogue mortals who say they're 'neutral'." She leaned on the stall. "Enough of an old lady's gossip; how can I help you?"

"Salda?" She nodded. "A delivery from Hillhaven." Ross produced the letter.

Salda's eyes widened and she took the letter at once. "What…Asolf? Brother…it's been too long. You should have written sooner." Her fingers traced the sealed edge, and with a genuine smile of delight she met Ross's gaze. "Thank you. Words can't express…it's been years since last I had word of him. I thought…" She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Thank the old gods he's safe."

Ross nodded and opened his mouth to answer.

Dragon wings darkened the market.

Instinctively he turned, a hand reaching for his crossbow. Salda hissed and shrank back, the letter instantly concealed in the folds of her clothes. The market fell deadly silent and frightened eyes scoured the skies. The dragon was seen at once, and Ross was drawn to the sight of it. It was a vast beast coloured all shades of gold. It flew closer to the ground than the others, and it seemed to be descending. Ross caught sight of a gleaming green eye in its heavy skull. It opened its throat and gave a single rumbling cry. Within two beats its shadow cleared the market, the rush of its wings stirring a rough breeze in its wake. It circled once and swept low, no doubt landing in the upper district.

Salda gave a hiss. "Vile brute. No doubt it's here for the execution. Death and misery appeals to dragons—and the bloodier and less justified it is, the better."

More dragons swept by overhead. More and more villagers were disappearing from the market, unnerved by the growing activity.

"Take care, freerider," Salda warned.

Ross took his leave.

He'd barely started his search for the inn when suddenly earth-shaking roars swept through _Ahgelingrah_. A frightened silence fell suddenly upon the city bustling with life. Even the dragonmen patrols stopped marching. Ross remained still as stone, the wind tugging at the frayed ends of his cloak. Any concerned thoughts turned to his horse.

Then, there came a drumming that rippled through the soundless earth. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

Footsteps answered. Ross looked around. Doors were opening, villagers and dragonmen were appearing, all wearing the same solemn faces. As one, the people of _Ahgelingrah_ , slaves and soldiers alike, began to make their way to the upper district.

 _It must be time for the execution._ Ross turned towards the gates, unnerved, but the sight of the unfriendly dragonmen standing guard stopped him. _They won't let me pass. They'll want me to see this. If I try to leave I'll only make trouble, and attract attention._ He was starting to regret coming into this accursed city at all. With a bitter sigh, he turned his steps to the heart of the city, the soldiers district, where dragonmen footsoldiers, lieutenants, generals, captains, resided. _Ahgelingrah_ was as much a home to Alduin's mortal servants as his immortal.

A large crowd had formed in the centre of the district. Ross slid amid a knot of villagers. They had gathered in a broad cobbled plaza where once an ancient tree had stood in the time of Whiterun, but like the rest of the city had burned to dust in the purge. This grim plaza served the same purpose as had the ancient tree, a gathering of townsfolk—but for a sinister reason. _Vaxhilvaxei_ , the dragons had named this plaza—Heart of Traitors and Traitorous. This would be the first time Ross attended a _vaxnilz_ —the purging of a traitor.

Dragons were gathered here as well. With wary eyes, Ross looked among them. They perched like oversized scaled birds upon the clustering houses, dragons of all sizes and shapes, active soldiers of Alduin's cause and freefliers, wild dragons who supported the cause, but were not yet a part of the World-Eater's ranks. Ross thought he even saw a few feral dragons, lean and wicked, keen to watch a bloody affair of a _vaxnilz_. Those unfortunate enough to find a seat circled overhead like ravens, content to hover and observe the gore from above.

In the rostrum raised at the edge of the plaza, where in the time of Whiterun a famous mead hall had stood, were figures small and large, majestic and shamed; there stood the warden of the midlands, the Dunmer and former dragon general Torlanquis, surrounded by a cohort of his finest dragonmen. Opposite him stood a dragonman Ross couldn't recognize, but by his colours presumed he was from the east. There was an honour guard with him as well. Then, between them both, was a grizzled man dressed in rags, disgraced on his knees and bound in heavy, crude shackles—and over his shoulder crouched the great golden dragon Ross had seen moments earlier.

After some tense minutes slipped by, in which the last few mortals were gathered in the plaza, Torlanquis stepped forward. In the silence that suddenly fell, his footsteps were annunciated. They must have sounded like death tolls to the prisoner. Then he stopped and faced the massive crowd that had gathered.

"My friends," he began, " _dii fahdonne_ , this is a good day for both mortal and _dov_." He slipped effortlessly between the mortal and immortal tongues. Here he allowed a pause, then continued. "You know the cause in which you serve. _Hi mindok foshi krif fah, woahrk._ " The dragons uttered soft growls. "Today, we honour that cause. _Dahsul, mu zin tol drun._ "

With an air of great disgust, Torlanquis stepped aside, gesturing with his metal contraption of the arm he'd lost in the battle that ended his days as a general. All the attention on the midlands warden now focused on the kneeling prisoner. " _Koraav nu, vax wahun koraak!_ See now, a traitor to our beliefs! _Vax do vaxkiin_ , a self-proclaimed Nord of Old who openly commits _nivzahrah_ , worship of the false gods!" The dragons snarled their disgust, and dragonmen spat and swore obscenely at the prisoner. " _Vax for los vobalaan do honiirdov_ —but for mortals, we may suffer his calling. Let it be spoken once—Ulfric Stormbear, third of his name, descended of a heathen line—and blessed we are if it is never uttered in this world again!"

Ross was startled, and stared at the prisoner upon the rostrum with new eyes. _He is no unfortunate Raider, dragged before dragons and mortals of_ Ahgelingrah _to make an example of—this is the right hand of Kaarn Stormbear himself!_

Torlanquis paused to let the dragons express their furious disdain, howling profanities at the captured Raider general. The Nord didn't move, as if he was already a corpse. Then, when the dragons had settled, Torlanquis announced, " _Ol prudaav vaxnilz, mu eimindah vax ahrk sahvotei_ —as befits the purge of a traitor, we acknowledge traitor and faithful." He gestured now to the golden dragon, who slowly raised its head, looking haughtily over the audience of mortals, and as an equal in the eyes of his fellow _dov_. " _Mu mindrus Uldmidaar_ —we recognize Uldmidaar!"

The dragons roared, pummeling their wings, calling his name as a gesture of courtesy. It was a deafening moment. The recognized capturer of the Raider gave nothing away. He did not so much as acknowledge his praise. He merely examined them all, though there seemed a certain tension in his movements.

Torlanquis waited until the dragons had settled again, then continued. "Where those who fly under the rule of our glorious World-Eater failed to bring this _tahrodiis joor_ to justice, it was Uldmidaar who captured him, and thus has dealt a crippling blow to the force of the heathens in the east. It is Uldmidaar who has turned the tides of this petty war, and has given dragonkind an advantage over the leader of this rebellion in the east, Kaarn Stormbear!" He repeated this in flawless Draconic, then turned to the prisoner. " _Nii los tiid wah drah nilz_ —it is time to commit the purge," he declared, a fiendish smile upon his lips. The dragons bellowed their approval. "My only regret is I do not possess the honour to take this traitor's life."

He turned to Uldmidaar, then stepped back with a respectful nod of his head. " _Drun zin wah hin nonvul thur._ "

Though Ross did not understand the words, he certainly knew the message. Uldmidaar drew himself back, arching his throat, a murderous light in his eyes.

And Ulfric Stormbear lifted his head.

The small movement seemed to stall the execution. The dragons growled with disgust, the mortal loyalists hissed and sneered. Ulfric took no notice of it. He rose, very slowly, onto his feet, his chains dragging and clattering with his every move. Then he raised his eyes, fierce and fearless, and for all the world he looked a man not about to die, but a soldier prepared to give his life to his beliefs.

"Today I die," he said simply. His voice was strong and deep, and commanded such attention that even the dragons grew silent to listen with interest. "I die a hated man. I die shamed to the face of the Nordic race. I die a traitor in this new age. I die in many different ways in your eyes—but in mine, and in those I shall leave behind, I die true. I wielded my beliefs as my weapon and the old days as my shield, the old days when men were free, when dragons were ghosts, when all that Skyrim was remained. In this, I am a Nord of Old, and I will die true."

His voice hardened. "I wonder if that can be said for any of you who pledge allegiance to this cause that has turned Tamriel and Skyrim to ash. Would you be prepared to die for it? Would you find the courage in yourself to confront death's grisly specter, take its hand and depart willingly, to leave behind a legacy others would take up after you? A sword with a waiting hilt? Would you even know for certain your name would be remembered through song and story, or would it simply disappear from memory, fade from the minds of those you called friend and ally, as was the fate that befell the Dragonborn?"

The dragons tensed, hissing with fury. Even those who could not speak Cyrodilic knew the word 'Dragonborn'.

"My life is ended and I die," Ulfric said. "To those who wish freedom from this new world Alduin has made—" The dragons howled profanities at his daring to speak their overlord's name, and still he went on without fear. "—know I have died for that dream of liberation. My nephew's armies will not be crippled. No, they will be angrier, stronger. They will see my death as a provocation to the greatest war this world has ever known." He smiled, and that was when Torlanquis barked an order, Uldmidaar's breath rattling in his throat. "May Talos smite His false heir the Dread, may He and the Nine see Alduin's end!"

Fire swallowed him whole.

Ross turned from the carnage and closed his eyes, stomach churning in disgust, and he was not alone. Even some of the dragonmen looked away. All the dragons bellowed their approval and glee.

Uldmidaar, amid the noise, stepped back. Only when the bellowing had settled did he stir again.

" _Alduin mahfaerak_ ," he rumbled. " _Alduin thuri_."

Then he flared two golden wings streaked with snowy white and rose into the sky. Disturbed cinders rose after him, a silver-black cloud that was all that remained of Ulfric Stormbear.

The dragons exulted. " _Nilz, nilz,_ " they roared, and all took wing at once in a flurry of sound. " _Alduin thuri!_ " they cried. " _Alduin thuri! ALDUIN THURI!"_

 **d|b**


	9. VIII - Over Wine

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

Eloquently, Vylornar swirled the dark ruby wine in his silver goblet. "Do tell me, kinsman, of what life is to be expected among this…assortment of talent."

Pyrus smiled in return and helped himself to some more. It was an old vintage, which he'd permitted to mature for as long as he'd owned it since his days as a younger man, for a special event as was this. There was no greater moment he could have dreamed than to dine with the Dragonlord Vylornar himself, upon the frosty evening of his arrival.

"You may be disappointed." Pyrus lifted the rim of his goblet to pursed lips. "I'm afraid none of these mages may ever compare to your soldiers' magical talents. They learn to further their own knowledge, or perhaps to land themselves a healthy job, a court magician, healers, scholars, even mercenaries if they're desperate."

Vylornar's smile was sly and thin. "And you?"

"I seek a greater future for myself." Pyrus drank lightly, though he took care never to part gazes with the Dragonlord. "I have mastered all that there is to be offered and studied here, in the mystical arts of flame. Seventeen years, and in truth, I feel there is just so much more to be learned. Fire is never truly understood until you _become_ one with your element."

"A fascinating proposal." Vylornar leaned contentedly back in his chair. Beneath the rim of his hood, which like Pyrus he wore continually while in public, his dark orange eyes shimmered as bright as embers. "It is becoming more and more apparent, Pyrus Greatfire, that through the misfortune of your human blood, you have become akin with the elven."

Pyrus was delighted at the compliment. "If wishes existed, I would have long sought a way to banish the human from me altogether—or better still, had my mother sire me from a respectable pure-blooded Altmer in the Summerset Isles." He'd never visited the country of his ancestors' birth, as the burning south made for perilous travel; he hoped when Alduin returned from his pillaging in the south provinces, and the wars began to ease, he would leave this frigid land and seek out the greatest orders of magicians that Tamriel offered.

"It makes me realize how little I know of your past," said Vylornar, with a mild air of sympathy. "Do tell."

Pyrus dipped his head. "I did not even have the grace of being born where I ought to have been. No, I was born here, in Skyrim, though unlike these soft-hearted humans I feel no sense of kinship with this cold, rugged land. My mother abandoned me at birth, and I was raised by a pair of humans. Upon learning of my gift with flame, however, they were keen to rid themselves of me. They feared the majesty of fire."

"Are not all humans shy of true might?" sighed Vylornar.

"But I saw the flame as a way of release," Pyrus went on. "I immediately devoted my life to learning its secrets. By my nineteenth year conjuring fire was a natural gift, but it was wild, uncontrolled; I sought to hone it, to master what could not ever be truly mastered. I wanted to defy the boundaries I could not see. My ambitions were grand, and so I travelled to the frigid north and familiarized myself with the life of the College. I was a quick study, especially in destruction, of course. While frost and lightning are at my calling should the need ever arise, I ensured fire was my primary focus from the start. Even after I graduated I remained here, determined to use their knowledge as the source of my wisdom with my growing kinship with the flame."

Vylornar smiled. "And grown your kinship has."

Pyrus was again delighted by the praise. _He thinks highly of me._ "These college mages are shy of my gift," he said. "They wish me away, uneasy with the rate of which I devour their teachings. I would have left long ago if I had known of a better place to study."

"I'm afraid there is nowhere better in Skyrim to learn the secrets of fire," said Vylornar. He sipped his wine. "Except, of course, with our overlord's noble cause."

Excitement quickened Pyrus's pulse. He waited, though the Dragonlord extended no offer.

"Are there any other mages in this college as affiliated as you with a certain magical art?" Vylornar inquired.

Pyrus fought to hide his disdain. "Hardly. Certainly these mages possess skill, but they are meek with it. They find they are content with all they know, and are absently delighted if another opportunity to learn presents itself. They concentrate across a much broader range of skills—no doubt useful—and specialize in a certain school, but nothing particularly unordinary concerns them; certainly nothing worthy of a dragon's ear."

Vylornar chuckled. "You would find the dragons are ever hungry for knowledge, Pyrus," he said, "even if it comes from a lowly mortal afraid to grasp true power. They are cruel and hard, sadistic and unchanging, but there are no finer teachers in Tamriel or Nirn itself. Remember Joorpaalrah, who cast aside his mortal name, the one frightened men name the Dread; our great lord Alduin helped him see the truth to be found in this corrupted world, and thus even the Dragonborn bowed to his greater wisdom. He cast aside a destiny that would have destroyed them both, and together they rendered about a new age of glory and fire, an age where all the corruption and malevolence in this world shall be purged in the flames of renewal, and from its cleansing ashes a new empire shall rise, an empire unified beneath the guidance of a god."

Pyrus shivered with awe. "It is a magnificent dream. I pray one day I shall live to witness it."

"Perhaps you shall," said Vylornar. He sipped his wine. "I shall be ever grateful to the mighty dragon race," he mused. "They offered me the greatest opportunity that I had ever seen in my centuries of living; a true purpose, a way to glory, a world unified beneath the black wings unfurled. In the old days, before the Dragonborn was even a quickening in his mother's womb, I was a mage, one of the many enlisted in the ranks of the Aldmeri Dominion that once spread havoc across the face of Tamriel. They and the old Empire fought what I view now as a petty squabble; a dangerous one as well, one that cost many good lives of both men and elves. It was Alduin who offered another way, one of victory and unity and power; was it not for those virtues the Dominion fought? But the World-Eater…he was a leader who I wanted to follow, who I was truly prepared to give my life for, should the need ever arise. When Joorpaalrah was named by Alduin himself, I determined to follow him; if the Dragonborn could change his destiny, foretold in the Elder Scrolls, then surely so could I."

"I always wondered how one became affiliated with the dragon cause," said Pyrus, struggling to keep his exhilaration under control.

If Vylornar noticed, he courteously ignored it. "Oh, _anyone_ can pledge their allegiances," he said dismissively, "but to attract a dragon's attention in doing so, and the _right_ dragon's attention, now _that_ takes cunning. For me, it was as though fate intended me to rise high among the ranks of my overlord's ranks. My years of war had served me well, for my skills with magic were at a magnificent peak. I travelled north, of course, following whispers and events and rumours of a legend come alive, and a legend betrayed. Then, while in the mountainous pass of the mountains dividing Cyrodiil and Skyrim, I had the good fortune to be ambushed by a dragon."

Pyrus's eyebrows rose. "That was good fortune?"

"Certainly," said Vylornar, gracefully amused. "It was no ordinary brown or green, not even a bronze or white or orange; no, this one was a Revered, a rarer sort, a dangerous sort, and certainly not one any old mortal could defeat alone.

"But defeat it I did. Our fight, in truth, lasted only a short while. I decided that where physical and magical strength could certainly not compare to a Revered dragon, wit would serve instead. For a little while I concealed myself, forcing it to land and search for me on the ground. That was when I triggered the avalanche. The Revered could not escape its crushing flood in time and was smothered at once, while I protected myself by sheathing myself in fire's glorious embrace. When the snow settled I climbed free, unhurt. The Revered suffered a much more unfortunate fate."

Pyrus was deeply impressed with Vylornar's practicality.

"I found myself facing one of Alduin's lieutenants when I emerged from the drifts," Vylornar continued. "It turned out he had been searching for the Revered, and found it in the pass where I fought it. He was impressed at my talent in battle, and the ways I'd both wielded fire and found other means to defeat it when my ordinary skill proved not enough. He asked my name and I gave it freely. He departed and remembered me; and when Alduin began to rally powerful mortals to his cause, he found me and extended the offer, which I took gladly. After that, it was only a matter of proving myself worthy of first serving under the promise of such a glorious future, and then worthy of the rank of Dragonlord, a mortal entrusted with a dragon's most incredible secrets."

Pyrus felt a dark hunger stirring within him, mingled with such a bitter longing. _Imagine all the secrets a dragon holds in its ancient heart; imagine all it could share…_ He kept such thoughts concealed, and satisfied himself with another taste of wine.

"Others saw the wisdom in serving under the World-Eater," Vylornar continued. "Now the ranks of the Dragonlords are growing, and as they do their reputations precede them. Perhaps you have heard of a few?"

Pyrus assented. "Of course; there are even books written of some of the greatest. Dragonlord Cadmir, a Breton whose mastery of the magical arts was so great it is believed he was worthy enough to be blessed with a dragon's immortality; Dragonlord Astarr, named 'the Bonereaver', who raided ancient cairns of fallen heroes to make his gilded suit of armour and ensnared the skeletons of his fallen foes to guard his crypt in death; Dragonlord Ollos, whose cruel nature won over even the cruelest, most unforgiving race of all; Dragonlord Analor, bane of heroes, responsible for some of the most crippling blows to Skyrim's tarnished legacies such as the destruction of Jorrvaskr, famed mead hall of the Companions, and the end of the ancient Stormcloak rebellion and Stormcloak himself."

Vylornar quirked his brow. "It appears you are well-read of our history. I note you have not mentioned Nisenthril, but that is forgiven; he is the easiest of the first five Dragonlords of Alduin to forget, while younger Cadmir has made quite the name of himself in the half century he has proven worthy of true power."

Pyrus fought to hide a satisfied smile. _I've impressed him._ "These books were documented throughout the Fifth Age," he said, "though no doubt there are many more worthy of immortality in the pages."

"Immortality!" Vylornar's lip curled, his mild air vanished. "Books preserve only the perception of a history from their creator; true immortality is to see into the Currents of Time itself, to feel its darling caress. I do not care for an ink-dotted page in a book. I intend to exist, to witness the great new world the World-Eater strives to create, a new world which already is taking shape from the ashes around us."

He paused. "And books are incorrect; those you have mentioned all have twisted truths. Cadmir was taught by the dragons the secrets of writing time, to raise the ancient dead, to eternally bind his servants' souls and flesh to ensure their unyielding loyalty, but not once were the _dov_ so foolish as to bestow to Cadmir the gift of immortality. Common enough among his ilk, Cadmir is ever hungry in the pursuit of knowledge. He will not be satisfied, and the dragons intend to keep him as such; he is powerful this way, but not enough that he may ever think he could betray our overlord."

"Fascinating," Pyrus lied. _I care little for conjuration. Let Cadmir keep his corpses; I wish only fire._ "And the others?"

"Astarr, I suppose, is almost correct; until his death, he wore the bones of the Five Hundred Companions he collected in a raid of Ysgramor's Tomb. When he died, he slept in that armour with the Companions' trapped souls guarding his rest, but it is the bones of his wingsteed who died under his living command that prowls the ancient halls. Ollos is cruel, without doubt, but it only impressed the _dov_ , not swayed them. Nonetheless, his methods of extracting answers from his prisoners, answers most useful to his overlord, entitled him with Joorpaalrah's respect, and thusly the dragons'." Vylornar's voice softened with audible disgust. "And as for Analor…No doubt he is responsible for the Companions' eradication, and the death of Windhelm's final Jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak…but as for the eradication of the Stormcloak line, it is yet to be purged from the new world."

Pyrus blinked. "The Raiders?"

"Yes, these so-called 'Nords of Old', openly resistant to Alduin's cause. Like the dawn of the Fifth Age, thousands, millions, fought back against the World-Eater and the turned Dragonborn—and thousands and millions died. Resistance after resistance was destroyed; the Aldmeri Dominion, the Forsworn, the Empire, the short-lived folly of Merigard, the fool Guilds that thought themselves strong or chivalrous enough to take part, until only one opposition remained. We thought they had been purged when the Fifth Age was rendered, with Windhelm's destruction and _Nidrinnilz_ raised from its rubble and ashes. We were mistaken; under the banners of a Stormcloak heir, the Nords of Old have risen in full force from a dormant rest, and fight to reclaim _Jergevild_ , the easthold."

"The arrogance of humans knows no bounds," Pyrus frowned. "Small wonder the greatest of the World-Eater's ranks are elven in origin."

Vylornar's thin smile returned. "Indeed; the elven races nurture the greatest ambitions alongside the dragons', thus they tolerate us more than humans—not to mention the humans were their primary enemy right from the first Dragon Wars." In one fluid motion his goblet of wine had returned between his slanted golden fingers. "This heathen show of Raiders should not last long. Our great overlord is deeply aware of the disturbance in Skyrim's east. He has assigned one of his many lieutenants, Zoornahldir, to…quell this trouble in _Jergevild_. Over the few years this pitiful rebellion has rekindled and grown in strength, from simple shows of power to dragon lair raids in the east, though it is now plainly apparent that they are on the losing side. Recently there was a mass confrontation of Raiders in the mountains that border Skyrim and Morrowind, and Zoornahldir reported a freeflier captured a most significant figure to the Raider cause; Ulfric Stormbear, uncle to the rebellion's hope and leader."

Pyrus's eyebrows rose. "A freeflier, you say, captured Ulfric Stormbear?"

"He lived in sympathy to his kindred's cause, though preferred a life devoted to the growth of his kind," said Vylornar quietly. "However, such a significant deed to further the rule of our overlord shall not go unforgotten by either side. While the mortals to our cause suggested Stormbear was placed under the…influence…of Ollos—the information he would have of this rebellion, they claimed—the _dov_ demanded a _vaxnilz_."

"I've heard of those," said Pyrus, intrigued. "Apt judgement before dragoneye, where the traitor is trialed before Akatosh Himself."

"You choose your words well, kinsman," said Vylornar lightly. " _Vaxnilz_ is committed every day, every month, every passing year—but for a true _vaxnilz_ , it must be performed in the heart of the home of this country, and that must be in the midhold, _Ahgelingrah_ , where traitors shall suffer through shame and sneers before gifted the release of death—and even then they face judgement in the soul lands, from noble Aetherius to heathen Sovngarde; from these and between our great overlord draws his strength, nourishing his insatiable hunger upon the spirits of the deceased." He took a sip of wine. "The _dov_ demanded the Stormbear face a _vaxnilz_ , and none argue with a _dovah_. The execution was set to be this morning; perhaps it has happened already, and the Raiders will be crippled. The face of this uprising, a youth named Kaarn, was Ulfric's nephew, and the younger relied much on his uncle's wisdom in the ways of warring with dragons." Vylornar's face twisted into a sneer. "He is young, a cub playing with his claws. With the old bear dispatched, I have every confidence Zoornahldir will eradicate this blight quickly—and we shall ensure the Old Nords do not dare to rise again."

"As do I," said Pyrus courteously. "I would very much like to meet this Zoornahldir." He felt a little light-headed at this point. He had to be careful; he must not let human clumsiness spoil this perfect moment he shared with this esteemed Dragonlord.

Vylornar said nothing for a while. Pyrus tried to read the pyromancer's face, yet analyzing it was proven to be a challenge. Even absent-minded, Vylornar's face was inscrutable, a flawless mask of concealed thought. _If only I could perfect such a face,_ Pyrus thought sullenly, slouching into his chair. _Yet another thing I could learn from encountering these dragons._

Vylornar set down his drained goblet. "I do not wish to linger long in this frigid peak of Skyrim," he said curtly, rising, his magnificent molten robes falling gracefully around his lithe, dangerous form. "The dragons will surely have completed their census of the commonfolk, and more still will have left to hunt the ice fields west of here. It is long past time I find the Arch-Mage of this establishment and commence this College's assessment."

Pyrus hastily stood. "You needn't bother Othalos. If it is information you need—"

"Enough," said Vylornar, and Pyrus fell silent at once. "Your gesture is…appreciated. However, it is by the command of the greater I serve that the statistics of the affairs of the College are received from the one who oversees this operation. That authority, kinsman, belongs to Othalos Miden."

Pyrus swallowed the flash of frustration that hardened in his throat. _Othalos is an old fool,_ he wanted to say. _He supports no cause. He only reads the books you so detest. He does not even come down from his room to eat; he has the other mages bring him meals. I can help you more than that bookish Dunmer ever could!_

"Do know," said Vylornar, turning to the door, "your report shall be considered most amiably. I thank you for the wine." Then he'd disappeared, and Pyrus was alone once more.

Alone in a surge of rising, overwhelming rage; no doubt influenced by the strong wine.

 _After all I have done, after all my accomplishments, findings, gained knowledge…_ Fire burned in his soul, as hot as dragonflame. _Even the great Dragonlord Vylornar does not see me as who and what I am, like all the rest of these insufferable fools!_

With a flourish, Pyrus let the flames flare in his hand, red then blue, so fierce it almost burned. Into the fire he channelled all his resentment, his fury, and watched it grow brighter and hotter.

 _He will see._ Pyrus quelled the growing blaze with a single twitch of his finger. _Even Vylornar shall see. Oh, how he shall see fire made flesh!_

 **d|b**


	10. IX - Haven

**[A/N]: Around the time of this update I succeeded in uploading my first YouTube video, huzzah! It is Elder Scrolls related, and just the beginning of what I hope will be a consistent stream of similar videos. A while ago I scored an orchestral arrangement of some of Skyrim's atmospheric and beautiful in-game music and now I've finally posted it online. Search for _Skyrim, An Orchestral Medley_ by _The ShoutStream_ if you want to watch/hear it!**

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 **d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

The thunderstorm eased as the river wound into view—swollen from the night and morning's heavy downpour.

Nurr, who was very much soaked and disgruntled enough, looked upon the Karth with a surly sigh. He checked his horse at the sight of water running over the road, turning the dirt track into mud. "Have I ever told you I'm not an Argonian?" he said dryly.

"Nor am I." Lio gave a rueful grin. "Hence why I wanted to return sooner."

"Return to what—cold and black and Brothers wasted in the drunken glory of their own success?" Nurr gave a snort. "I preferred Eagle's Rest for just this reason."

"It wouldn't have made a difference; you can't control the weather." Lio spurred his horse into the sludge. Nurr followed, resigned to the world that was his life. His shoulder was really playing up under his armour, which desperately needed airing.

They trudged in silence for a while, the overflown river lapping at their mounts' bellies, until they came into the sheltered chasm, cliffs of rock and earth rising up around them. It was especially misty here, dampness clinging to Nurr's face. That was good. He checked over his shoulder for stalkers, just in case. Even in the fog and the beginnings of a hangover on their way, his naturally enhanced senses of sight, sound and smell were not to be questioned.

Dragonsong rumbled off the cliffs of stone. Nurr's ears twitched. "Miles off," he muttered, "hunting, as they always are."

Lio nodded. "I think we've had enough dragonslaying for one day."

They swam the horses through the river, which helped remove some of their acquired mud, before kicking them up the steep pebbly slope. Nurr had trodden this path more times than he cared to count. His horse had probably done so even more. They climbed the rise and the mist swallowed them, sheathing them from any unfriendly eyes below.

At the top of the rise Lio slid from his mount, heavy boots soundless in the thick, dew-laced grass. Nurr slid after him, relieved to stretch his legs. "No sentry," Lio muttered, scanning the cave mouth. "Of course. I bet they're going to dump that happy task on the last one back."

Nurr curled his lip. "It's not going to be me. I'm going to bed."

"Oh, no you're not," said Lio, smiling. "You have to go and report to Emilyn about the ruckus we stirred up in Eagle's Rest."

Nurr lashed his tail. The headache was progressively growing worse, perhaps from the revelation of having to face his Grandmaster. "Come on, she likes you better," he tried.

"What, the average Imperial swordsman to the Khajiiti miracle archer who likes his drink just a little too much?" Lio shook his head and was the first to step into the cave. "Come on, we're late enough as it is. I'd kill for some sleep."

"You did, and will again," Nurr muttered after him. He cast his senses through the mist a final time before following Lionus into the Karthspire.

For a while, as they progressed through the dark, narrow passages of stone, all they heard was the clattering hooves of their weary horses, blackness pressing all around them. The walk always made Nurr think back to his days as an initiate; when the older had played pranks on the younger in this underground night—pretending the mountain was collapsing on them, tripping them up in the gloom, or simply running through the tunnel screaming, " _THE DRAGONMEN! THEY'VE FOUND US!_ "

Nurr smirked. Ah, those good old days.

Light filled the world ahead, soft and silvery, shining through the natural fissure in the ceiling. Nurr spared a glance around the old ruins embodying this cave. They looked neglected and empty of life at first glance, so abandoned it was as if there was nothing here whatsoever but gathering dust. The walls didn't even seem to go anywhere.

Of course, Nurr had been with the Blades for far too long to appreciate concealment was the key to survival.

"Phew." Lio rolled his shoulders and looked around. "Who would've thought—that beast will be well and truly rotting by now. Thanks to you of course. _This_ —" With an exaggerated air of disgust, Lio raised the sodden, stained ends of his cloak. "—is also thanks to you."

Nurr grinned. "Ah, you love me."

"Unfortunately, it appears I do." Lio raised his voice. "I suppose we have to see our own mounts to the stalls, then?"

The initiate hurried from the shadows, treading far too noisily. The lad was big, almost with eye level at Nurr, but then again size was natural in an Orsimer. He was meek, however, muttering an apology to them both as he grabbed at the reins.

Nurr was terrible with names; Lio, however, went and clapped the boy on the shoulder, greeting him like an old friend. "How goes the training, Slag? Did we miss much in our extended leave?"

 _Slag_ , Nurr remembered, the orphan Orc they'd rescued from the stables on a visit to Markarth, or whatever it was the dragons called it now. That had been four years ago. Slag proved inept at any sort of weaponry and shied at the sight of blood, but he made an adept smith and was the best to work with the horses.

Slag grinned, his tusks stretching his massive mouth. "Some of the Brothers had a fest. A couple chucked. The Grand-lady had a time trying to get them to clean it up."

Nurr had quite forgotten Slag's informality.

"And where is Emilyn now?" Lio wondered.

Slag shrugged. "Be in the book-hold, I think, talking with old one-leg."

"Mind what you call our dear master-of-arms," Lio tutted lightly.

"Let him off, that's quite good," Nurr smirked, "I might use it at some point. And what is Jor doing in the library? He can't even read."

"Maps, he can," Slag replied, and led the horses away.

Nurr exchanged a glance with Lio. "Well," said the latter briskly, "we know where to go, then. At least, you do."

"I'd rather my chambers first," Nurr murmured, thinking wistfully of his comfortable cot.

"If you so much as take one step in that direction, I'm going to set fire to your pillow," Lio promised solemnly. "Now come on. It's not my fault you've gone and drunk yourself dead again."

"If I wanted to be dead I'd have let that dragon do it," Nurr grumbled, wearily following Lio to the upper levels of the Temple. The climb passed with surprising swiftness, until at last they were on the landing that led into the Temple itself. In previous times, Nurr would have glanced at the dais on the floor and thought of how over one hundred years ago the Dragonborn had knelt and offered a sample of his blood to the ancient stone, providing sanctuary to the near-forgotten Order; today Nurr hardly thought about it. He'd had enough of dragons for one day.

Then he and Lio were in the main entrance hall. Nurr rolled his shoulders, hissing through his whiskers as the sore one gave a painful twinge, and sighed. "We're finally home."

"A pity we missed all the fun," Lio observed mournfully.

Qualified and sober Blades moved through the Temple, either on guard duty (the worst) or wandering from idle boredom. The ones freed from duty moved about in their comforts, usually an old tunic complete with breeches and boots. The long table was empty and scrubbed, the chairs containing studying initiates instead of feasting warriors. Nurr spared them a nostalgic glance; it hadn't been too long ago when he'd been seated and doing the very same, poring over old tomes and texts, deciphering the dragons' complicated written language, memorizing dates and noted Blade heroes and events from the Dragon Wars past. He'd forgotten half the academic stuff, but Nurr had never been a bookish fellow. There was a thick hush in the great hall, broken only by the scratches of quills and accursed mutters and the gentle turning of yellowed pages.

Nurr and Lio quietly sauntered by the studying initiates, nodded to fellow Blades as they passed, and traversed the hall into the archives. Sure enough, they heard Grandmaster Emilyn's voice resonating from within.

Lio smirked. "Good luck."

"Aren't you coming?" Nurr protested.

Lio winked. "I'm going to bed!"

Nurr gaped. "No fair!"

"Of course there's not." Lio clapped Nurr's bad shoulder and grinned. "Better go see the healer before bed, too."

Nurr muttered darkly after Lio's retreating back, then turned bad-temperedly into the library.

He found Emilyn quickly amid the maze of shelves, each book being tended to by archivist acolytes and initiates on chores. She was leaning over a table that had a large sheet of yellowed, crinkled-edge parchment folded over it, pinned down in the corners. Jor stood beside her, as did the Temple's Archivist, Rendal. The aged Altmer looked troubled, stroking the silver in his beard while wizened brown eyes scanned the map. Jor looked just as solemn—though then again, he only ever was solemn or surly. Still, there seemed something different about the way he furrowed his brow today.

Emilyn was the first to notice Nurr's return. Instantly she wore a disapproving frown and straightened. Nurr took a preparing breath. _And here we go…_

"I suppose I can expect either an apology or an excuse as to why you didn't accompany the rest of us home, again," she said in clipped tones.

Nurr used to quail under those sharp blue-gray eyes of hers. Now he was too tired or too used to such reactions to care. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "I like to celebrate on my own terms," he defended.

"Mhm." Emilyn folded her arms. "I had to send Lionus after you again. Don't you think he has better things to do than chase you up like some disobedient dog?"

"Or cat," Jor remarked.

Nurr was sober enough to shoot him a direct glare, then turned back to Emilyn. "You know me," he rasped. "Ale has an irresistible draw. Like a moth to a candle."

"Fly too close and you'll be burned," Emilyn frowned. "So you were in Eagle's Rest. Again. Drinking." The anger had faded from her voice. It was now blunt with exasperation.

"Again drinking," Nurr affirmed. He struggled not to let his growing headache show. "It helps dull the pain."

"So does medicine," Jor grunted.

Nurr stoically ignored him. "There was a disturbance while I was in the Tankard," he went on. "Dragonmen."

Emilyn's eyes narrowed. "Brilliant. And?"

"Lio and I took care of them."

"Well, obviously that was necessary, but what else?" Emilyn straightened a little more. "What were they doing in Eagle's Rest? Alduin's supporters don't travel that sparsely into the stonehold, and Eagle's Rest is not so far away from Sky Haven." She furrowed her brow. "Maybe they're catching on at last. Were they looking for Blades?"

"They found two and sorely regretted it," Nurr offered.

"Answer her question, cat," Jor snapped.

Nurr refrained from pressing two fingers into his throbbing temple, with difficulty. "Lio didn't have too much time to interrogate them. They were onto us pretty fast, and then, of course, they were put down and we left."

Emilyn sighed. "Damn it. You could have kept one alive and brought him back for questioning." She didn't brood on it for too long. She turned back to the map. "In any case, other dragonmen are going to hear about the public slaughter of three of their fellows, and Eagle's Rest will be swarming with them soon enough. I presume you're already aware that you will never return to that town as long as the World-Eater reigns?"

 _For the rest of my life? Yes I do._ Nurr gave a curt, frustrated nod.

"That might be a good thing," Jor remarked. "Now you might actually start coming back with us on time."

"Hush, Jor," Emilyn murmured distractedly. Her eyes were trained on the map once more. "In any case, treacherous mortals aside, we need to return to what we were discussing previously. We've killed another dragon in the stonehold, and a minor—others of its kind won't hear of this for months, probably, and by that time the flesh will have rotted and our scent will have faded." There was a new cross on her map, marking another extinguished dragon lair. "We'll have to arrange monitors to ensure other dragons don't get an idea and move in."

This was all familiar stuff to Nurr. He fidgeted, thinking of his cot. The healer could wait a few hours. "Can I go?"

"You'll leave when Grandmaster Emilyn dismisses you herself," Jor growled.

Nurr subsided with a resigned nod. He'd forgotten how frustrating Jor was, really. Acting like he was deputy. Sure, the man was wise in the ways of war, combat and dragonslaying, but he was well out of action. Nurr's eyes locked onto the Nord's wooden left leg and armless left sleeve, the crutch he leaned heavily upon, and the fire scars disfiguring his throat and face. Eighteen years ago he'd been hit full-on with a surge of dragonfire during a lair raid, and was lucky to escape with the loss of two limbs and his pride, in the preservation of his life. Since then, he'd taken over as mentor to initiates training in the art of weaponry. Nurr remembered training under the unsatisfied Nord who had an inane gift of finding something wrong with everyone's battle stance.

"Enough, Jor," Emilyn told him patiently. "Nurrkha'jay, you'll stay for a few moments more. We need you on this next lair raid."

Nurr lashed his tail. "Do not tell me we're heading off right now."

"Of course not," Emilyn answered. "We never go lair raiding two days in a row. It is, however, planned." She tapped a spot on the map, southwest of the Karthspire, and said, "We've discovered one of Alduin's active loyalists, Lotjoorkriid, has taken up residence two days' ride from here."

Nurr pricked his ears. So _that_ was why everyone had been solemn-faced when he'd entered. He recounted what he knew of Lotjoorkriid from his studies; a Red whose Thu'um, according to the few rare survivors of his attacks, consisted of no less than fire, ice, ice form, ethereal and dismay. There was a good chance that he'd learned a numerous others; his history book had been long outdated. He was a dangerous heartless creature who delighted in razing mortal villages and devouring anything that couldn't fly.

"And let me guess," Nurr said dryly, "you want me to go along with you."

Emilyn nodded. "Your skills are needed again, Nurrkha'jay. You have a habit of killing our enemies with one well-placed shot. Well, that might be just what we need to even our chances against him."

"I can't promise any good results from this," said Nurr. "I haven't had any experience with Reds before."

"I believe I can help with that," Rendal inputted softly.

Nurr glanced at the Archivist. He'd nearly forgotten the aged Altmer was even there.

With small, shuffling movements, Rendal advanced closer to the table, but this time he lay across the map a scroll that looked even more woebegone. When it was folded out and the corners tacked down, Nurr saw it was an anatomy paper. He'd seen and studied plenty of these during his days as an initiate, though this one he hadn't seen at all. Still, of all the paperwork he'd ever been presented with, analyzing anatomy papers was his greatest bookish strength.

"So you've found it," Emilyn muttered. "And we're absolutely certain of Lotjoorkriid's type."

"Positive," Jor growled. "I had Falen and Screema-Lei scout the dragon's den when it was out, and it has all the signs of a Red dragon lair. Massive hoarders, Reds are, and fierce defenders of their nest. There were as many bones as coins, and that bastard's wealth could have fed a city."

Nurr decided to support Jor on this one. He didn't trust Falen with successfully analyzing a dragon den—the Wood Elf's perception of such things was hazy at the best of times—but Screema-Lei knew all dragon types like the quills on his scaled head. Nurr had known the Argonian since his days as an initiate. He hadn't been the nice sort, the one who went about making friends or even comprehend a joke, but Screema-Lei was intelligent, and a quick study, both in the scrolls and books and out on the field.

"So Lotjoorkriid is certainly a Red," he said, leaning over the anatomy paper. The Red dragon was eloquently illustrated in black ink and scarlet dye, and beneath it lay coal sketches of its skeleton and muscles. Weaknesses were clearly outlined in spots of yellow. "Well, the eyes are the weakest point, as usual," he muttered.

"But a Red dragon's throat is better protected," Rendal murmured, gesturing at his own with his gnarled yellow hands. "Their crest of horns protects from jaw to brain, and guard the soft flesh around its jaw with swordpoint precision. I doubt even you could get an arrow in there while the dragon's moving."

Nurr saw what he meant, grudgingly. "The throat isn't so heavily scaled as other dragon types," he observed.

"But the flesh is thicker," Rendal answered. "Only a crossbow could hope to vitally puncture." He tapped the chest. "The collarbone is higher-set, and the heart is protected by two layers of scales beneath it."

"Figures." Nurr curled his lip. "I never go for the heart. Dragons can actually survive heart wounds from tiny things like arrows. But the brain…" He tapped the head. "You can never go wrong with the eye."

"You must be careful, then," Rendal said softly. He tapped the skull. "The optic nerve travels through a much narrower passage, and there's even a slight bend in the passage of bone between eye and brain. You would have to hit the eye on a perfect certain angle for an instant kill."

"It can't be too different from a Blood," said Nurr. "Bloods have the narrowest optic nerve passage of all the dragon types. They're an absolute pain to kill through the eye."

"But you've done it?" asked Jor sharply.

"Of course. Eyes are my style."

"Then that's the best plan to take against Lotjoorkriid," Emilyn decided. "Rendal—for our swordsmen, where are the best places to aim for?"

Rendal tapped the paper. "The wings will be tougher," he warned. "Reds are frequent fliers. Fire spells may prove effective to weaken the flesh, which can then be pierced more effectively by swords; however, if the swordsmen manage to cripple the beast in one wing, escape will be more difficult if it seeks to flee, and wing attacks will prove off-balancing. It may be at that point the Red refers to its tail and breath attacks. Shock attacks will stun and wind it. The mages should aim for the main arteries to still the flow of blood at this point in the throat—" He tapped. "—the base of the neck, and any opened wounds. Reds, like Frosts, also have a place vulnerable for shock attacks, though it proves precise to reach, and perfect timing is required: beneath the primary horns, on the underside of each foot, and the throat, when its maw opens to breathe or speak."

"I'll be sure to let those chosen to raid know," Jor rasped.

Nurr grumbled, rubbing his throbbing skull. "I don't really need to know all this…"

Emilyn's sharp glance dissolved into one of amused sympathy. "All right, Nurrkha'jay, you're dismissed. Go and lie down."

" _Thank_ you, Grandmaster," Nurr said graciously.

"Oh, and you and Lionus are doing a demonstration to our initiates at midday today," Jor added with a nasty grin. "Did you forget?"

Nurr froze. "Shit," he swore. "I did forget."

"Best you keep your commitments," said Emilyn, eyes twinkling. "Remember what happened the last time you failed to keep one?"

"Perfectly," Nurr muttered, stalking away. "You sent me on a lair raid."

 **d|b**


	11. X - Woman and Wolf

_The wolves of Skyrim are feral, savage beasts, but their societies are more intricate than almost anyone would believe._

 **d|b**

 **-Chase-**

The nighttime was cool and still, just the way she liked it.

Chase sprinted up the hill on her own two feet and stopped at the top, inhaling deeply, separating the symphony of scents the night winds brought her. Goosebumps rose on her skin, though she hardly paid the chill any heed. Her blood ran warm in her veins, energized with the thrill of the hunt.

 _And just to make things interesting…_ She smiled, one tongue tracing her teeth, square and blunt, meant for chewing cud, not ripping raw flesh. _Tonight I serve my goddess mother, but in my human shape._ There was something oddly alluring about hunting on her own two feet, with nothing but her wits and throttling, tearing hands to track and make her kills.

She lifted her head and sniffed again. Grass, elk scat, a dale of wild honeysuckle not two miles away, a hare a hawk had plummeted to and caught two hours ago, only six paces from where she stood now…Each passing year, her senses grew sharper as the wolf grew in strength within her. She felt it now, pacing alongside her, an invisible companion who never left her and greeted each battle with snarling delight.

She stroked her mental half and sprinted down the hill, on the trail.

Chase hated weapons. Mortal weapons were huge clumsy things, easily dropped and broken and unable to pierce everything. She detested them. Mankind needed such things to protect themselves and hunt for nourishment, but all she needed was her soul, which left her only in death. She'd only known that life since before she could remember, when it had only been a fierce instinct that had guided her…that, and the wolves that had raised her.

She'd been born, according to her wet nurse, to a monstrous she-wolf who laboured in great pain for a day and a night. By the time it was dawn, she was human and dead, a babe squirming blindly between her legs. That was how the pack had found her. The alpha had decreed the wolf-scented human be left for maggots and flies—wolves did not eat wolves—but the newborn be saved. It so happened back in the den, a bitch had given birth to a small litter, and she had plenty of milk to spare; and the child was wolf-born, of two wolf parents. It had never been done, they claimed, and she was unique. The spirit within her was fierce and strong, so much a part of her that it made no difference what skin she wore.

Chase had been raised with these wolves. She'd grown more slowly than her packmates, though she learned quickly, and despite the fact she was young, her wolf was the strongest and fiercest of all the rest—but her alpha sent her away into the world of men, aware of the human side of her that could not entirely be forgotten, if she was to achieve true harmony between her two selves. There was no doubt, however; Chase's heart and soul belonged to the thrill of the hunt. She did not long for her pack like some whinging whelp, but her human skin was not as comfortable nor as practical.

 _I get cold too quickly, and run too slowly, and my hands and teeth are not designed to rip or tear._ She shot them a dark scowl. _However,_ she thought, _the prospect of hunting like my pack while in this skin is a deeply intriguing one—and my goddess mother so delights in intrigue._

She did not look to the sky, as was expected when one referred to a celestial being—but hers was a more earth-bound one, who preferred to stalk alongside her children than observe. Chase wondered if she would walk with her tonight, and grace her faithful daughter with her presence.

 _When I make a kill worthy of it,_ she decided, and ran faster.

Her bare feet drummed the coarse, stony earth, music to her ears. She mounted a jutting stone that overlooked a sweeping depression in the ground, lined with prickly heather and overwhelming scent. The night wind clawed at her matted hair and stung her skin, but Chase smiled to the idle pain. She leaned forward, perched on the tips of her digits, and waited.

A new smell made itself known amid the many others, and her attention sharpened. _Deer_ , she thought, as on the fringes of hearing came the echo of dragonsong. _More than one, but not large enough to be worthy of the title herd._

She swung herself down and scrabbled to the flatter soil. Scat was scattered carelessly across the hidden path, and instinct kicked in. _Still fresh. They must be close._ Heather had been clipped, grass consumed and grazed to stripped stalks. Chase picked up her pace, wrists flexing in anticipation. She'd never tried killing something as large as deer with her own human hands before. _But this is the night,_ she knew. _I can feel it._

The deer presented themselves within minutes. Chase scaled a hill, one of many born from a series of deep ruptures in the earth—the scars of an old fight between dragons, probably—and saw their silhouettes on the other end of the plateau, grazing companionably. She counted six, three adults, two fawns and a half-grown doe.

Chase's smile turned downright feral. _She is mine._

The hours slipped by as she patiently made her way towards them. They were slow in moving, eating at their own leisure and labouring over each mouthful. They were utterly relaxed, confident that the night would offer them the greatest protection from their most dangerous hunters. _Dragons' eyes fail them readily without the sun, but without the sun I am at my prime._ For the world was more than light and sight, as true hunters understood.

Stalking four-legged, but constantly prepared to rise onto two, Chase hid herself among the twisted brambles of a swollen blackthorn bush and waited. Gradually the deer made their way nearer. A buck led the party while the rest traipsed behind, investigating every potential mouthful. Chase only had eyes on her target, however; the young doe was careless in her ignorance, drifting farther from her fellows, while the two fawns proved infinitely the wiser, shyly remaining close to the adults.

The doe spotted the blackthorns and drifted near, nostrils flaring. Chase wasn't overly concerned—she'd rolled and tumbled across the ground until she was thoroughly dirty, and even covered her open skin with fresh scat, to ensure her foul human stench was disguised. The doe would scent her and believe her to be just another part of the environment—especially in her disinterest for danger. Her stomach growling in hunger, Chase gathered energy for the pounce.

Her quarry suspected nothing still, even being so bold as to sniff at the pointed barbs of the blackthorn. She recoiled with a snort when a sharp bramble opened a little cut on her nose—but the blood scent stirred a primal lust deep within Chase's soul. Blood, her every instinct called, and she did not deny them.

She burst from the thorns with a snarl and wrapped both arms around the startled doe before she could leap away. Braying frantically, she struggled. Chase refused to let her go, dragging her back, and both tumbled to the ground as the other deer fled with long, loping strides, surrendering their foolish, doomed fellow to her inevitable fate. She fought against her captor, but her long legs had fallen to the other side of her, the razor-sharp cloven hooves useless as they chopped wildly in the air. Her head flung back, but she possessed no antlers, and the bare skull and oversized ears were simple to avoid.

Chase positioned herself in a few swift movements, wrapping both legs right around the deer's body and her arms tight at the throat. She squeezed, shutting off the quarry's howling cries. At last the doe tried to stand and flee, but Chase's weight proved too great, trapping her to the dirt. Her will to live proved weaker than the hunter's lust to kill as Chase burrowed her fingers into the doe's jugular, harder and harder, until the flesh gave way, her hands were warmed in a tide of sweet red, and her nails drove into a throbbing muscle.

A powerful spasm gripped the animal, and Chase smiled. She slowly lifted her chin to the doe's broad, sensitive ear and whispered, "For the glory of the Father, the Mother, and the hunt. Your flesh is mine. Your blood is mine. Your life is mine."

Then she pulled, with the exhilarating sensation of tearing meat.

And it was over.

Chase grinned at her success, at how clean and excellent a kill she'd made in her human skin. She uncoiled herself from her prey and it flopped lifelessly upon the dirt, scarlet seeping steadily from the throat-less doe. The scent was glorious, and she reveled in it, salivating at the thought of the meal to come. _To be enjoyed as wolf or woman?_ she pondered, studying the way the blood glistened on her hairless skin.

The woman had earned it, but warm flesh did taste sweeter on a wolf's tongue.

"Well, make up your mind, before the meat is cold!"

Chase laughed before she started. "Mother, you startled me!"

The gargantuan she-wolf was uncharacteristically apologetic. "I believed at least some of your attention wasn't on the doe, little pup."

"Mother." Chase dropped to one knee, heart beating in reverence. "You came."

"Of course I came! You think I'd miss this hunt? I've been watching you since you began!"

Chase smiled at the incredulous note to her response. "In your name I hunted well."

"Then in my name eat the bloody thing, before I do. Let none say that the wolf-wife of Hircine had patience for perfectly good meat going sour."

Lupa had presented herself in particular magnificence tonight; her fur was dark as pitch and eyes as bright and hard as polished copper. The wolf's lips were pulled back, tongue lolling in contentment, but the clear woman's voice boomed from the unmoving jaws. Chase was comforted, and honoured, by her goddess mother's presence. _I hunted well to earn her favour._

"But you needn't do the skin-swap thing, dear," Lupa added, as Chase began to will the change. "Sometimes it is nice talking with a human wolf. Many have forgotten how to hear me, and none have been more entertaining than that huntress, what's-her-name…"

"Whoever she was, forget her, Mother," said Chase softly. "I am your huntress now."

Lupa's eyes twinkled. "Indeed, daughter—born of wolf and wolf, raised by wolves, and the wolf that lurks beneath the human skin hunts. But the human will chase, and the beast within is responsible for the drive to kill. Pureborn of two worlds, and let me tell you, there is nothing quite as unique as you in all this tormented, war-torn, dragon-filled existence."

Chase knelt at her quarry's side. "Mother, would you do me the honour of feasting with me?"

"You will feast for us both." Lupa's warm breath met the nape of Chase's unguarded human throat. "You have entertained me well, child. Hircine is just as pleased. He's considering naming you his champion, you know—if not for your persistent love for wolves. Until you have killed a wolf, you won't be His Hound. He only accepts the hunters willing to pursue all quarries."

"I needn't," Chase insisted. "Wolves are my kin, more than humans—and you are my Mother more than he is my Father." She bowed her head, suddenly afraid. "I meant no disrespect. I mean only to say that I am more wolf than woman. I can kill the greatest prey even in this skin, with no human hunter's cowardly weapon but that which nature has bestowed upon me."

"Oh, you talk too much, my child!" laughed Lupa, pacing to the other side of the doe. "Honestly, one would think you've inherited my love for conversation—which I know you haven't, given how antisocial you tend to be around your bandit friends." She grinned fiendishly. "Yes, I do know about your hobbies. An ingenious way to tend to your hunger, I must say. I'm surprised they haven't tried to make a skin out of you yet."

"A few did try, when they first learned what I was." Chase ran a tongue delicately over her lips. "They came to regret it."

Lupa roared with mirth. "Oh, such a wicked pup! No wonder the wild wolves took a liking to you. You remind me of one of my…oh, what's the human term for it? Sister-in-law…and what's _her_ name? I have so many of them…the spider, or something? Well, Spider is one of her names, but it's not the one I'm looking for…Ah, the Webspinner! Mephala, there we go. I never could keep track of Hircine's fifteen powerful, diverse and remarkably entertaining siblings. Delights in all things murderous, the Webspinner does. But you don't do it in the way she likes. You remain a beast to all the Princes' eyes—but I see you as something more." Lupa's voice softened in thought, and Chase pricked her ears in puzzlement. Again, this was uncharacteristic of the Mother of Wolves. "You've a glorious and bloody destiny ahead. That much you've made for yourself. My children are angry with Akatosh's sons and daughters. It will not be long before they find the courage to strike out against the tyranny that holds this world, such a slaughter that puts even Dagon's Crisis to shame. Dragons saved the world in that time—now Dragons destroy it."

Lupa sighed.

"Mother…" Chase advanced in bewilderment. "Are you troubled?"

"Trouble has as many names as Nocturnal," the wolf-wife frowned. "To say I feel all degrees of it is a complete overstatement. Do I concern myself with the petty affairs of humankind? Of course I do not! They are not my children! Leave them to the Gods!" She shook her head, vaguely annoyed at herself. "The destruction and chaos is Dagon's responsibility, of course. All these twisted plots of murder and wickedness are Mephala's game. Still have no idea what Sheogorath's part in this madness is…but Hircine once praised the dragons in their esteem as hunters, and now they hunt shamefully, with fire and death, and dishonour to the woods! Even Kynareth would be dismayed at what the dragons have become. They no longer find joy in the hunt but in death and madness. The shame to that! They burn the woods to watch the woods burn, and kill only for need of killing. Prey left uneaten and to rot, without cherishing the Huntsman's name.

"But the worst of it is that my children, true hunters of this world, are angry with these disturbances, and I fear for them, I truly do." Lupa's ears flattened. "So here lies the cause of my troubles, my little one. The malevolence of the dragons has ascended to new heights on new and fouler wings. Even the essence of the hunt has been desecrated, if my children and your wild brothers can no longer praise my name or that of Hircine's."

Chase was even more amazed than before, though uncertainty lingered above curiosity.

At length Lupa sighed and met Chase's gaze squarely. "Look, my bright and savage pup; hunt always in my name and I am content. There is nothing more that is expected of you, and nothing more I want of you. I delight in watching you. Your pack named you _shay'k-sh'aghar_ , and that you remain; the hunter among hunters, of both humans and wolves. Your Mother is _proud_."

The tip of her snout, surprisingly warm, gently met Chase's brow.

"Continue to serve me well, and just maybe Hircine might reconsider his requirements of a champion!" she added cheerfully. "Now do me a solid, my girl, and eat the damned thing."

Chase blinked, then realized that the wolf-wife spoke of her kill, what had drawn Lupa to the mortal plane at all. The meat was cool but still succulent, to touch and to smell. Her hunger was reminded. She twisted her fingers into the flesh of the doe's throat, and bent her head. Her blunt woman's teeth weren't sharp, but they were strong. She lifted her head and smiled at the texture upon her tongue and the sensation of the warm stickiness creeping down her chin.

Lupa nodded. "Feast tonight, and feast well."

Chase chuckled appreciatively, skin tingling as she swallowed. The doe was certain to disappear; only wildfire hoped to match her, the wolf's, voracious appetite.

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: I bet I surprised you. Oh yes, as soon as the theories of Chase's 'goddess mother' started rolling in, I could NOT wait to upload this chapter! _Huntress_ fans, was this an unexpected little stroll down memory lane? :)**

 **Lupa is a creation of mine who debuted in _The Huntress_ , and such was my fondness at her character that I had to involve her in this fic. She slotted in perfectly, I found. But the real question is, how did you find Hircine's rather unpredicable wolf-wife?**


	12. XI - Uldmidaar

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

The Blazing Hearth had seen many patrons throughout its ninety-year-old existence, chiefly dragon sympathizers, and though Ross could tell the minority wanted desperately to avoid such a congregation of their feared mortal enforcers, where else to go in the cooling night for a tankard of mead?

He hadn't liked it, just as he hadn't liked the _vaxnilz_. Never in his life would he forget such a sight as he'd witnessed. Ross had wanted to leave the city the moment the populace was allowed back into the streets, to shakily resume their business, yet he couldn't bring himself to face the road, not yet. He didn't push himself; if he wasn't prepared for another arduous journey across Skyrim, then he wasn't prepared, and he wouldn't leave until he was. It was basic freerider wisdom. One's heart had to fully be in the quest, else they'd most certainly lose their luck and find themselves pursued by the worst kind of hunters.

So he retired to the Hearth, the city's inn, found himself a discreet corner, and drank the shock of the dragon trial away. He was on his third tankard, and knew he was getting woozy, but he couldn't stop thinking, so he couldn't stop drinking.

 _Better to stay a night to soothe my mind than leave with a troubled and clouded one._

Ulfric Stormbear. Ross knew who he'd been, the height of his importance to the Raider rebellion in the easthold. Turned to ash by the dragon Uldmidaar, who was not even a soldier of Alduin's cause, but a freeflier, a dragon who respected the fight but wished no active part, only a life as dragonkind had intended; defend his lair, hunt for prey, live a life according to his standards. He was but one of the people of the empire the World-Eater had created.

 _This will be dire news to many ears, though without a doubt word will spread faster than I can ride._

He looked around the tavern. Every table was full, from raucous dragonmen in glistening armour to quiet commons in simple cloth garments. A mighty hearth blazed in the heart of the room, banishing what cold there was to be found in the well-populated establishment. The innkeeper's family moved among the tables, bearing trays of food and drink. As the dragonmen brazenly proclaimed their presence through rowdy jests, flirtatious hints and exaggerated tales of their conquests, the commons put their heads together and spoke of other things, better things. Perhaps they brooded over Stormbear's execution, or of Raiders and the old gods.

Ross was pleased to be left alone in his corner, though his hunger had stirred. He waved the innkeeper over and ordered bread and stew.

"I've just put a fresh pot on," she replied with a weary smile. "It shouldn't take long."

Ross could tell she was exhausted. "There's no hurry," he said, nodding to the vacant chair opposite him. "Sit down for a moment. You won't be missed for a few minutes."

The innkeeper looked thoughtfully at the chair, then shrugged and sat. At once the tension left her, and she sank against the chair's back with a sigh. "Oh, that's good to get the weight off my feet…"

Ross offered a wry smile. "Business blooms, I take it?"

"You could say that," she answered grimly. "Each night it's like this. You'd think I'd be used to it, after seven years running the place. Not in the slightest! It's good we've enough gold to feed ourselves and a warm bed to retire to—most folk are denied even those simplicities—but quite frankly, it's hell, running this place. Course, it's that time, innit?"

Her eyes grew haunted. "You saw the trial, right? The Purging, or whatever those…those _beasts_ name it."

"Much to my chagrin," Ross muttered, and took a sip of mead.

The innkeeper adopted a wise expression. "Oh, it was your first, was it?" she murmured. "Oh, that's tough, very tough indeed. I know that look in your eye. That's the kind the city's children wear after watching one of those monstrosities." Her eyes lowered. "And what a trial—a son of Skyrim, butchered by those heathens! I wonder how the Raiders will react upon the news of the death of Stormbear. Will they rise, just like he said, or fall into disarray without his counsel?"

Ross shrugged. "Freeriders take no sides."

"And that's a miracle in itself," the innkeeper pronounced. "Don't the dragons bother you?"

"Of course," Ross replied. "They consider freeriders easy pickings, and hunt us as eagerly in the wilderness as they do any other traveller unaffiliated with the dragon cause."

"Ghastly," the innkeeper muttered. Her eyes lingered on Ross's pin, and then she asked, "Are there many like you? Other freeriders?"

Ross nodded. "Of that there is no doubt; I am certainly not the only one in this world. There must be hundreds of us scattered across the face of Tamriel. But I have only ever encountered a few who risk the cold lands of Skyrim as I do." Many of them were wise like him and had a different name for every place they visited—but some were bold enough to work with their own titles. One of them was a young but clever man named Mark, a fellow Imperial who never disguised his identity. "So when I die there'll be a real name for folk to remember me by!" he'd said once when they first encountered each other many years ago.

The innkeeper seemed puzzled. "Skyrim is the seat of the World-Eater's power," she said. "The south burns, but the east and west provinces are quiet enough, treacherous only in their own rights with far less dragon influence than here. Why do you work here? Why not choose a safer province?"

"Not as much patronage elsewhere," Ross answered, "and a freerider's life is dictated by such a thing."

She looked at him in respect. "It must be a hard and lonely life you lead."

"It makes us hard men accustomed to the loneliness of the world."

Ross glanced at his tankard, which was almost empty, and considered another refill. The innkeeper smiled and took it from him. "Have no fear. I pity the first-timers of the public killings. This one's on the house."

"Thank you…er…?"

"Marla. What do you call yourself?"

"Allard."

She was gone for a moment, and returned not only with drink but his food as well. "You are very fast," said Ross, impressed.

"One has to be with this kind of chaos day in, day out," Marla replied briskly.

The stew smelled delicious, and Ross had confidence that it would taste even better—but when the innkeeper turned away, he suddenly found he didn't want to eat alone. "Wait a moment," he called.

Marla turned back with an apologetic frown. "Sorry. I must get back—"

"I know, and hopefully I won't keep you for long," Ross lied, "but there's something I must know."

"Oh?" Marla didn't look too disappointed.

Ross thought for a moment, then knew what to say.

"What can you tell me about the dragon Uldmidaar?"

He'd asked the right question, the kind that followed with a story. Marla, mid-aged innkeeper of the busiest tavern in Skyrim, adopted a new expression, and slowly she rejoined him at the table with a dark gleam in her pale eyes, her responsibilities seemingly forgotten.

"He's the one who killed the Stormbear, isn't he?" Ross checked, though there was no mistaking the name or the beast that belonged to it.

"You saw him loud and clear, if you attended the execution," Marla answered. "Aye, that's him, and to most folk who've lived in White—" She froze and spared a furtive glance around them, then lowered her voice. "Most folk who've lived in Whiterun know that name. He's a freeflier, sure, but one who's caused many of us much grief."

Ross began tearing his bread apart. "He's no soldier to the World-Eater's ranks."

"That doesn't mean to say he doesn't burn farms and slaughter whole families," Marla frowned. She sighed. "It's become common news, and no longer takes anyone by surprise, when we hear of a farm's destruction, or see smoke rising from the fields. The dragons' appetites are not always sated by the wilderness, and when elk and deer and bear are not enough, they turn their attention to farmers and families. The only safe place for the citizens of _Ahgelingrah_ is behind the walls under the warden's protection, but someone has to make his bread."

Her tone had turned bitter, and Ross couldn't blame her. Injustice reigned supreme, and in the cruelty of the dragons' rule, such news was old to him. The innocent died day by day, while those who were fortunate enough to earn a dragon's favour rose themselves above their fellow mortals. Such was the nature of the new world.

"I know of Uldmidaar, that foulest, most despicable of creatures," Marla went on coldly. "I had a sister once, Frolji. She married a kind farmer who loved her with all his heart. They did everything that was required of them. They received a permit from the warden Torlanquis, they were licensed a small tract of land, they paid their taxes, they did nothing wrong—but Uldmidaar still came to them one night, and devoured them and their young children, and razed their land to the bitter soil. And Uldmidaar was unpunished. Dragons plundering farms is no crime to the dragonmen."

Sympathy swelled in Ross's heart. "I'm sorry for your loss," he murmured. After a moment he wondered, "Do you blame Torlanquis as much as you do Uldmidaar?"

"I want nothing to do with that evil elf," Marla answered, "and anyway, what can I do? Providing meat, wine and mead for his soldiers curries no special favour with the warden. I will receive no justice should I speak out, only pity from strangers. Anyway, my anger lies with Uldmidaar. That monster made the decision to attack the farm, to kill Frolja and her family. A despicable brute, even down to his name. It means _Might Loyal Servant_ , according to the dragon sympathizers, those who learned their evil language. Those that know him say he lives nearby, in a lair over the river, above the ruins of Valtheim."

"Yet he was in the easthold subduing Ulfric Stormbear," Ross mused.

"And may that man rest in peace," Marla murmured. "If the tales of the Raiders are true, that they really are fighting back against the dragons for Skyrim's freedom, in the name of Talos, the Nine Divines…" Her voice quaked in reverence. "I hope for all our sakes that they rise harder and stronger from the ashes of the old bear."

Ross was intrigued. "So you support the Raiders."

"Theirs is a noble cause," Marla admitted, and lowered her eyes. "Yet I've little hope for them. What success can they hope to have, against the dragons? A hundred years ago all of Skyrim and the world united to counter the dragon threat, and before the World-Eater's strength was truly restored, each resistance crumbled into dust and ashes. Together, the World-Eater and the Dread destroyed the heroes that rose to face them. Their Dragonlords vanquished the ancient lines. Tradition held sacred since the First Age was burned away. Desecration after desecration was performed, and all the while the dragons grew in power until there was nobody left to oppose them."

Ross knew the stories too well, and others he'd learned in his travels. "The Stormbears claim last known descent of the ancient heroes. They trace their lineage all the way back to the Five Hundred, so they say; and the young bear Kaarn they are so bold to name Ysgramor's Heir."

Marla chuckled. "Wouldn't that be a dream—but as has happened countlessly before, the dream will turn into a nightmare. The World-Eater pillages the south, and the dragons are at the height of their power. The Raiders will soon be nothing more than a story, and if Kaarn was wise he'd remember what fate awaits him if the rebellion continues. Were our Companions not an example enough?"

Ross shrugged. "They are only tales," he reasoned. "I'm yet to see this young bear for myself, and wars I tend to avoid."

"We saw the old bear," said Marla. "I don't know about the Raiders' heroic lineage claims, but didn't he strike you as majestic, even in his rags and facing his death? And when he spoke, he spoke like a king to his people."

Ulfric Stormbear had died with courage, Ross conceded. _But courage is for heroes, and all heroes that rose against Alduin met the same fate. He may have been kingly, but he still burned and died to dragonfire._

"And of course it was Uldmidaar responsible," Marla said bitterly. "It's Frolji all over again." She paused for a moment, then stood suddenly. "Forgive me, Allard, I indulged myself a little too much. I really must return to my duties. Please, enjoy the stew."

She hastened away, melting back into the busy flow of the tavern, but Ross didn't call her back. He ate slowly and thoughtfully. Talking with the innkeeper had done him some good—he was no longer as shaken in memory of the _vaxnilz_ as he'd been before—but it had also given him a lot to think over. He was reminded of the tales he'd heard in the easthold, and from them, in his mind's eye, he saw banners of deepest blue rising from dust, emblazoned with a bear that roared defiance; and to dragons and treacherous men, hell unknown since the Fifth Age's dawn came crashing down.

 **d|b**


	13. XII - Smuggler's Bay

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

For what felt like days, but could only have been hours, Viper was immersed in nothing but the dark of a lightless tunnel, following the echoes of her hooded saviour's footsteps.

She didn't know where he was leading her, nor did she immediately care. So long as Servitude was left far behind, and she was even further from Ollos, she was content for the present. At least in the darkness nobody could see her trembling.

In silence she'd struggled with her fearful exhilaration. _I stole from a Dragonlord. I stole right under his nose._ Word would spread like wildfire, her reputation would ascend to new heights…and Ollos would search for her, day and night, calling for her blood.

 _Or worse._ All the stories she'd heard of the cruel Dragonlord circled in her mind. _There is no doubt what will happen to me if I am found._ But no matter what became of her, the Guild would survive. Cenrin made certain to keep rumours scattered, to ensure that New Riften was no longer the known centre of operations of larceny. It was made to believe that the Guild could reside in the darkness of the other cities, with no way of knowing. _We become ghosts, even to dragons' eyes—and where better to hide than right under their unsuspecting noses?_

Yet such thoughts proved little comfort. _He saw my face._ She would have to change her appearance. Hair was simple to alter, but eyes and skin and bone were different. Viper had heard tales of chirurgeons of Cloudrest, men and women who trained in the gruesome art of face sculpting, but whether any still existed after the World-Eater's tyranny… _The south provinces burn. To attempt a journey into the Summerset Isles is as suicidal as presenting myself to Ollos again._

Perhaps the Guild could help her. She'd make certain to disappear in their shadows, for months or years, become a myth to the people. Only then would it be safe to pursue a change of face, to restore to her the ability to work as the infamous Viper. _But there's one small problem,_ she told herself, _I'm on the other side of the province, and Ollos will not rest until I am discovered._

She had no choice but to place her trust and her life in the hands of a man she didn't know. _If he knows or knew Janquil, and Janquil entrusts to him the protection of a Guildsister…_ The Guild looked out for each other. Viper hoped that the wily Dunmer was well on her way back to Slavetrap.

 _Cenrin expects me back in a fortnight. If I'm not, I'm dead or lost._ For a moment, the thought of not returning made her teeth itch and shivers crawl up her spine. _All or nothing, for wealth or for shame. There was never any choice, and do I regret what I've done?_ She didn't know how to answer herself, yet she found herself scared, more scared than she'd ever been in her life—but gods be damned if she'd let anyone know or see her like this, however she appeared in her uncertainty.

"We're almost there, you know," her guide announced, voice bouncing freely in the dark passage. He seemed quite comfortable within the inky blackness. "Your guarded concern is quite irksome. What are you afraid of?"

Viper hissed. "I'm not afraid."

"Not of me, not of this tunnel, but you're definitely afraid. You needn't fear. Trust may be out of the question, but know that you're in good hands. Janquil wouldn't have called for me if she thought I wasn't capable."

"Enlighten me," said Viper coolly, "who are you?"

"Know me only as a humble smuggler." The man chuckled, amused with himself. "Humble indeed, for we are nothing compared to the league and legacy of the Thieves Guild. We are a Guild of our own, I'll have you know, but we sprang up only half a century ago, when it became apparent that Skyrim needed food and supplies that continuously disappeared on the road. Dragons are mighty devourers. They keep attacking farms and burning cargo vessels just for the hell of it. Have you ever stopped to ask yourself, how is it that a city has enough food, or how do merchants have enough to sell to make a living for themselves?"

Viper frowned. "You mean to boast that you can supply entire cities?"

"Not entirely, but we provide our services to those willing, and in such times of desperation and oppression most indeed have turned to the shady side in order to provide for hungry mouths." Another low chuckle sounded. "All under secrecy and skill. All cleverly managed and hidden from prying eyes. Wardens eat food we provide for their plates and don't even realize where half of it came from. So you see, the Smugglers Guild is a small and humble organization, nothing nearly as grand or as prestigious as the Thieves Guild—we worship no deity nor bargain with Daedra to ensure our successes—and we certainly don't work for fame or glory. Our body is made up of men and women who simply want to escape attention. Survivors, all of us choose to be."

Viper hadn't heard of a Smuggler's Guild before, and in the underworld, that was a feat some might consider a miracle. "So how did you and Janquil become acquainted?"

"That darling elven lady-turned-larcenist is partially responsible for making a rabble of mere smugglers a thriving body and a permanent anonymous establishment to the underworld. She saw the benefit of another faction that dealt in a different manner of larceny. Good for her; it now means she can curry favour with us when she needs it. She called one such thing in for you. If something went sour at the party high above, she needed some talented hands to safely smuggle a Sister south." He made an amused noise at his alliteration. "And you are indeed an interesting favour, heart-taker."

"You've never smuggled living cargo?" said Viper flatly.

Again, he chuckled. "Oh, certainly we have—but not so far, nor so fast, or from such a man as Dragonlord Ollos."

There came in the distance a silver light. "We are almost there," her guide repeated.

"So where is it that an organization of smugglers might meet?" Viper inquired.

"Somewhere practical, close to business, but nowhere that the think-they-know-all dragons expect. We do not hide so close to the sea, for example, though smugglers work best as sailors harbouring illegal goods. But we do not hide so far from a city of profit. So we settled in a humble little town some way down the road from Servitude. If you've done your history, you might recognize it—at least if you climbed onto the surface and took a look at the bridge."

The light was growing stronger, until Viper was reduced to squinting. _Just how long have I been down here?_ she wondered, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the growing glare.

When the light was all around her, Viper stopped entirely. Fresh, cold air pricked at her skin, and when at last her eyes adjusted, she lowered her hands and looked around. She'd emerged from the tunnel, which was black as pitch behind her, into what appeared to be a broader one, but the walls were lit with pale candles.

In the light she got a better look at her guide. He wore no special uniform but an assembling of various garments, mostly in shades of grey and brown. His hood was tattered, his cloak came only halfway down his back and hung in long ragged strips. His hands were gloved, his boots made of some dark tough leather that scarcely left a mark in his wake, for the floor of this tunnel had changed from stone to gravelly earth.

"You've come from one of the many ends of the Hole to its source," the smuggler announced, gesturing behind them as, previously unnoticed, another figure pushed a round iron door over the tunnel's opening. Viper listened to it snap shut with a twinge of apprehension. "You stand now in but one corridor of the Wormpaths, an entrancing network of caves where the Smugglers Guild hides what needs to be hidden."

Viper curled her lip. _Well, the Guild had its Ratway…_

"Based completely underground, you know," her guide continued. "The only way to access these caves is to descend through some trapdoors we put in some of the houses above us, or to travel down the Smuggler's Hole, as you did." He nodded to the figure behind them. "That there's one of…well, we're a Guild, aren't we? But we don't get so sentimental as to name one another Guildbrothers. Guildfellow seems appropriate enough for a band of dishonest businessmen."

"Brothers and Sisters have the other's back," Viper muttered.

"Brothers and Sisters fight, as Brothers and Sisters tend to do," said the smuggler. "But a fellow among fellows…the relationship is formal, the jobs are treated even more formally. We're not a very sentimental sort. Maybe we just don't have enough history yet. In any case, miss serpent, we'd best continue. Our Guildmaster is expecting you."

"Do you deal in names at all?" Viper asked, as they wound into the candlelit Wormpaths.

"Only the few who choose to," the smuggler answered. "In the Smugglers Guild you'll find two kinds of men or women; the anonyms and pseudonyms. I myself choose to keep my identity a secret. The Guild knows me for my voice and for my ability, and nothing more is needed in this kind of business. The pseudonym types make rather poetic names for themselves. We've had good names and bad names and names that definitely had Sheogorath tampering with them; Wet Socks, to name one. The Sparrow, Ferret Fingers, Shorthand, Highsmile, Woodenthumb…but being poetic pseudonyms, there is always a reason behind the name."

Viper couldn't hold back her disdain. "Even the one called Wet Socks?"

"Yes, even him. An entertaining fellow. A sailor-turned-smuggler, you know, he's unafraid to get his feet wet." The smuggler offered Viper a toothy grin. "Even the noble thieves must confess, we humble smugglers are good at what we do. Our organization remains unknown. Very few outside our Guild even know of our existence, and no dragonman is aware."

Soon the tunnel opened out, and the dirt floor became cobblestone, to Viper's surprise. The sloping sides were walled, the ceiling tiled in slate. Bright candles glowed from crevices, outlining tables, crates and bookshelves, laden with tomes of every kind. "Are we in some kind of library?" she asked.

" _The_ library," her guide answered. "We are wiser men than most. All of us know our letters, and there is nothing we like better than to sit and read through history and legend. Our Guildmaster rightly believes that there is no greater wealth in all this world than knowledge, and so that becomes our currency. We collect books from all across the continent. If gold does not satisfy, records of history and legend serve our needs."

"Why bother?"

"Many of us used to be honest folk, literate men—and here, in this library, we may resume what we were before we were driven into the purpose of the underworld. The tyrant sought to destroy all knowledge, but he knows not of us, so he knows not of this library. Ours is the most complete collection you may find anywhere in Tamriel."

The shelves stretched on, seemingly endless. "If you consider yourselves up to the suggestion of winning a Daedra's favour," said Viper, "Hermaeus Mora's your best bet."

The smuggler chuckled. "The thought had crossed some of our minds. It is how the Smugglers Guild functions best, with knowledge of the past as well as that gained from the present. But Daedra prove rather tricky, and some prices are just too high to fulfill while operating contentedly—and we are not soulless men, and prefer to keep the irreplaceable. Don't think I haven't heard about the trouble with _your_ Daedric deity when a trinket of hers was…misplaced."

Viper flicked her gaze away. It was only a fireside tale to the Guild now. "So where is your Guildmaster?" she demanded.

"At the beating heart of the smuggling body," her guide replied. "It is not far from the library." He turned sharply right and down another candle-lined tunnel. Viper wouldn't consider herself claustrophobic, but spending so long underground with not a glimpse of natural light for an uncertain length of hours didn't make her feel too good.

"Just how many of these damn things are there?" she scowled.

"The Wormpaths grow with the Guild. More are being created as we speak. They are not made with magic, simply born of practicality. Every smuggler knows these tunnels, and it is impossible for one to become lost in them—but for those unfamiliar…they prove most treacherous indeed. It is a maze where there is no way to move but forward and back, so imagine if by chance the dragons did discover our existence, and dragonmen come flooding down the Hole and land in the Wormpaths…they are certain to lose themselves. How easy it would be to pick them off while they battle in their uncertainty and stumble about blindly in the dark."

Viper viewed the smuggler with greater caution in response to this sinister revelation. "You're right, you know," she told him. "Trust is out of the question."

He laughed at that. "Trust is overrated. Since when has anyone trusted a smuggler?"

"So what makes me think that you'll keep to your word?"

"Trust we do not deal in, but favours we do, and we are men of courtesy, miss serpent. We owe Janquil, and it would prove unwise to upset her."

The passage opened again, but not to what Viper had expected—a vast cave swelled around her, large enough to hold a palace. Stalactites hung in long arching points from the ceiling, while the ground level was flat and tiled, covered in all kinds of inventory; tables, chairs, crates and sacks, torches aglow in every corner, vast fires left right and centre with smoke thickly rising to the ceiling. There were even buildings, and what appeared to be a small harbour, linking directly to a vast pool of water that swept around the wharfs like a small sea. On the other side of the cavern was another sloping path, broad enough to take two horse-drawn carts side by side, around a bend where a flood of shimmering pale grey light poured inside from—judging by the immense height of the strip of light—a tall opening. Throughout the cave thrummed the sound of rushing water.

"Welcome to Smuggler's Bay, the heart of the Guild," the smuggler announced. "This is where you will find our Guildmaster."

"Impressive," Viper admitted. "You're situated beneath a waterfall?"

"The 'fall gives us the bay—water to drink and water for cleaning things—while it shields the cave from all knowing eyes. Impossible to climb into from the outside, lethal to attempt access by swimming, and the path you see leads only to a balcony that gives you a lovely view of the falling water. Its roar drowns or distorts any sound we make behind it, and dragons aren't renowned for their sense of hearing. The fall itself can only be seen from in the cave around a corner, so all our lights are shielded from interested eyes from outside. The air circulates nicely with the fall, while our many fires keep the cave dry, and the smoke from all our flames great and small discourages the presence of bats.

"Our Wormpaths, as I said before, are accessed from the basements of buildings in the town that resides on the edge of the gorge. Many civilians don't know about the Guild below their feet—not unlike your _Aarhorvutah_ , no?—but those that do have a basement, and a Wormpath below their houses, which they may traverse to reach the library, the Hole or Smugglers' Bay. They themselves are smugglers, or our ears and eyes of the surface world."

Viper shook her head. "Your lot's thought of everything, haven't they?"

The smuggler chuckled. "The Guild prospers from practicality."

The cliffside path wound down to the ground. It was then Viper noticed the people. "Just how many are a part of this Guild of yours?" she asked.

"Two to three hundred, I believe. The buildings you see are not all for storage of supplies. Most are bunkhouses."

The smuggler led her to a modest hovel tucked among some very large stalagmites. Viper was again surprised. "So this is where your great and glorious Guildmaster resides?" she said, looking disdainfully upon the crude construction of weathered wood.

"He prefers the unremarkable."

The only remarkable thing Viper found about it was the mark emblazoned across the door, which supposedly was across every other door of every other building in the Bay—the sigil of the Smugglers Guild, a hand on its side, bent index fingertip pressed to bent thumb, while in the oval space between the two digits was an open human eye.

"Perception and dexterity; the best tools in a smuggler's possession," he explained.

Viper made no response and opened the door.

The room was dark and dimly-lit, and gave the impression of a study. The windowless walls were lined with shelves, chairs were pressed up in the corners, and a broad desk occupied most of the back wall. The surface of the desk was cluttered with parchment, books, ink, wax and candles. A pewter scale perched at one corner, a glowing lantern in the other. A figure was bent over a thick ledger when Viper strode inside, but lifted his head at her entrance.

He wore no hood, and smiled at her.

"At last, you are here."

His face spoke of two things, common birth and a lifetime of hardship. It was gaunt, stubble covering his chin and pock-marked cheeks, deep lines creasing his brow and around his hard grey eyes. His black hair was thin and ragged, streaked with grey and silver. He looked old, but he was Breton, so though he could easily be considered in his sixties, this was a man still very much in his prime. When he got to his feet, his attire was not much grander than that of the smuggler that had brought Viper here; a mismatch of various assortments of attire, primarily coloured grey and black, though it was notably in better condition, not quite as worn or fraying.

Viper drew herself up, wishing sorely for her Guild leathers, and folded her arms. "I was informed you awaited my arrival."

"To which I do not deny," the Guildmaster answered. He turned to her guide and nodded. "You have my thanks. Leave us."

Viper heard the smuggler's footsteps recede, the door close in his wake. Only then did she speak again. "Janquil called in a favour with you, so I hear. You can promise me safe passage to New Riften?"

The Guildmaster's lips twisted in a wry smile. "New Riften indeed—it seems some things refuse to die."

"The Thieves Guild is more stubborn than most know," said Viper. "The Cistern survived when the city did not. We survive still." She tilted her head. "But enough of this. Now, would you be an anonym or pseudonym smuggler?"

The Guildmaster's smile broadened. "I see you have already been granted some insights of our organization. But to answer your question, I no longer need a name; my title speaks my identity, and that suffices even in conversation. Consider this my pseudonym, if you will, but I remain very much anonymous."

Viper nodded, though she suspected she'd never be satisfied with these smugglers. Her impression of them had mounted to the point when she considered all masters of deception. "You know who wants my head and I don't intend to give it to him. So how do you propose you'll see me safely away from this place?"

"As soon as your sister-in-crime Janquil contacted us, we had the arrangements settled." The Guildmaster pressed both palms on his desk and assumed a Cenrin-like pose. "It is currently midmorning and you stand on the fringe of the borders of the westhold, stonehold and midlands. This evening a shipment of wine is to mount a delivery to _Ahgelingrah_. From there, a delivery of honey and fruit is to make its way south beneath the mountain pass to _Aarhorvutah_. You shall be a part of this shipment. The route is set, the bribes are accounted for."

"And the catch?" frowned Viper. _There's always a catch._

The Guildmaster's lips twitched. "I promised you safe passage," he said, "not comfort."

 **d|b**


	14. XIII - The Longest Ride

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

Every time, without fail, Nurr had forgotten something. This time, he'd forgotten entirely about not being able to stop by the Tankard after the raid, so he'd forgotten to bring some of his own alcohol from the Temple—which meant that for a fact, he'd now have to return with his fellow Blades and endure through Emilyn's surprise when she saw him walk accompanied by his Brothers and Sisters through the door, still stone-cold sober.

 _And I forget again,_ he thought. If _I return._

This was no mere wild dragon he and his fellow slayers were riding to kill; this was a loyalist, a soldier, of Alduin the World-Eater himself, who'd made the unwise decision of nesting in the same hold as the Blades were found. There were few places better for brown-skins, Elders, Ancients and Reds to make a home for themselves amid the craggy peaks of the mountainous highlands. _Though surely everyone gets sick of goat if they eat it enough times,_ Nurr thought. _Gods know I am._

The Temple was too far behind them to turn back now, however, so he had to put up or shut up.

At least he had more pleasant companions this time around. In his previous lair raid—now five or six days into the past—he'd had to endure through some particularly serious fellow slayers of his, the ones who'd spent their initiate days studying late into the night and treating every error as the end of the world; which, using the century-old response to such an expression, might just mean that. They'd worn serious faces and solemn demeanors, going on about how they'd trained for this, that they couldn't underestimate their opponent, that they had to strike hard and fast, blah-blah-blah. When they'd confronted the dragon they'd prayed to whatever gods they held dear and fought with mechanical precision, constantly cautious yet seizing every opportunity.

Nurr wasn't careless, but he didn't go _that_ overboard with preparation.

Thank all Fadomai's children that Emilyn had chosen some better Bladesmen to kill Lotjoorkriid with him, the kind that freely admitted their nerves and reflected on their mission with some degree of confidence. Lio was one of them, which was good; not only was he persistently pleasant even in the thick of mortal danger, but he was an easy man to follow. Simply put, nobody had arguments over who'd be team leader when Lionus was present.

Screema-Lei had also been chosen, which again was good; he was one of the serious-minded Blades who Nurr could actually tolerate. The Argonian led the group, given he was one of the two scouts who'd located the lair and therefore the dragon. Even better. Screema was intelligent and as quick with his knowledge as his reflexes, but made for astonishingly poor conversation.

The other three were Blades who Nurr had trained with or watched throughout their days as an initiate: Rogghart, the oversized Orc who always found something to grin at; Helena, a Nord who claimed not-entirely-Nordic ancestry and showed it with a prestigious affinity for magic and peculiarly slanted eyes; and Banviel, a Bosmer whose family had served as Blades since the early years of the Fifth Age, who enjoyed a mix of spells and swordplay. Nurr liked her, which was ironic, given her having no knowledge whatsoever as to how one shot an arrow straight.

All made for excellent company on the road.

The first leg of the journey was done without much fuss. They traversed many miles and left Sky Haven far behind them as they followed the Karth north towards _Wergevild_ , the westhold. They found an abandoned bear den under a lip of stone to spend the first night of their journey. The fog fell thickly around them that evening, and there was so much of it that Lio deemed it was safe to light a fire. Nurr even found himself enjoying the night. Around a merry little blaze, surrounded by people he could consider friends, with a hot meal on the way, he was content even in the face of what was to come.

And there was so much conversation that even Screema managed to talk a little.

"Initiates come and go, and change as they grow, but they're always the same," Rogghart remarked with a long-suffering note in his deep growl. "When they're not reading, they're training. When they're not training, they're cleaning. When they're not cleaning, they're eating, sleeping and training some more. It's adorable, really, how much they have to work."

"We all went through it," said Banviel.

"Some of us went more through it than others," Nurr told her, glancing slyly at Screema-Lei. As though to accentuate his point, the Argonian had his head down and scaled nose buried in a book.

Helena chuckled. "Or still _going_ through it."

"It's like puberty," Rogghart sighed. "Shameful, really. Can't they just hurry up and grow a bit?"

"Training new Brothers and Sisters for a lifetime of hunting the world's deadliest sentient race is worth taking time over," Lio inputted. "We don't want them to get killed the instant they set foot outside the Temple."

"Killed!" snorted Rogghart. "Three-quarters of the Blades Order is made up of orphans or self-proclaimed avengers. The other quarter comes from diverse and less-tormenting origins."

"So what are you?" Helena challenged. "Orphan, avenger or clean?"

Rogghart chortled. "Oh, I didn't know we were telling backstories tonight."

"Just yours," Helena retorted.

"Just mine! I'm either deeply offended or honoured, but let me get back to you on that," Rogghart remarked. "So let's see; you could call me an orphan, I suppose. My ancestry goes back to the time there were strongholds of my kin in the Reach. In the initial purge, they all got wiped out. Most of them, at least. A few managed to survive, either by retreating deeper into the mountains where they only delayed the inevitable, or setting aside their traditions and pride, and going to live among civilization. It's really quite easy for Orsimer to find jobs. Nearly all of us are either warriors or smiths, and the old Empire could certainly make use of both occupations."

"Be delighted," Nurr remarked, "your people are valued so highly. Mine were viewed as thieves and smugglers."

"Well, aren't you a little ray of sunshine," said Rogghart dryly. "Doesn't matter now, we're treated as slaves like everyone else in the screwed-up world. I myself was born in Markarth, where my family had laboured for generations."

" _Frilingul_ , the dragons call it now," Screema said solemnly.

"We're the goddamned dragon _slayers_ , Screema, remember?" Rogghart snapped. "To Malacath with the stupid names they give to things."

"Hear, hear," agreed Banviel, and Helena nodded.

"So you were orphaned at some point," said Nurr, keen to see an end to the story.

"Of course, says the orphan. No happy endings for those people. My father died in a mining accident. My mother was eaten."

"Ouch," Banviel murmured.

"Well, at least they went quickly," said Rogghart gruffly. "So I grew up a bit on the streets. Found work where I could. Mostly found trouble. Definitely saw the inside of the prisons a few times. Thinking back on that, I'm just glad I escaped notice. Some dragons in this stonehold have acquired quite the taste for Orsimer, and I've never known a warden to refuse a dragon when he asks to _inspect_ the hold's prisoners. In any case, I one day attacked a group of dragonmen who were trying to drag off this poor young woman. No doubt what they wanted with _her_. I wasn't a warrior, but I had brute strength, and against their steel and chainmail dresses, that was enough. I killed the three of them, and aware of what fate awaited me should I linger, ran for it, escaped into the wilderness and left Markarth behind. At some point I found myself at the mercy of the Blades, who adopted me out of the kindness of their hearts." He grinned. "And eighteen years later, I'm wearing the armour and taking the fight to the dragons' ugly faces."

"Bravo, bravo!" Helena cried, applauding. "That's a bestseller, right there!"

"Indeed," Rogghart chuckled, "if I'd ever learned how to write a single fluent sentence."

He leaned forward on his knees. "Right—who's next to get nostalgic?"

"Screema ought to," Nurr recommended, and gave the unwary Argonian a hearty thump that sent his book flying.

"Yeah, go on, Screema!" Banviel encouraged. "What's your story?"

Screema-Lei looked awfully uncomfortable, and shot Nurr an annoyed look as he picked up his book. "There is truly nothing to tell," he said quietly.

"There's _always_ something," said Rogghart, folding his arms.

Screema sighed. "All right," he muttered. "My family was refugees who were captured by the dragons' men. My parents were executed for some crime they never committed, while my sister and I were inducted into slavery. Where I managed to escape from their clutches, she did not. I travelled south and found work in the lumber mill Riverhome, in the easthold, and a few years later was brought to the Blades by a travelling spy who saw potential. I trained, and I became one of them, of you."

Rogghart gave a slight cough. "Nothing to tell, eh?"

"Well," said Helena impatiently, "aren't you a closed book."

"There's got to be more," Banviel added. "What happened to your sister?"

"I don't know," Screema-Lei answered. "She's no longer a child serving the Dragonlord who captured us."

"Wait—you served a Dragonlord?" exclaimed Nurr. The Blades exchanged looks.

"Unwillingly," muttered Screema, lowering his eyes.

"And, to top it, you _escape_ from a Dragonlord," said Helena, eyebrows raised. "Divines, Screema, I knew you'd been a slave but you could've told us about the Dragonlord bit!"

"It was a convenient piece to leave out," said Screema-Lei curtly. "It is best not to remember that."

"And the bestseller title is bequeathed to the Argonian who doesn't know how to smile," said Rogghart, shaking his head. "Care to tell us a little more? Which Dragonlord? Not Ollos, surely, your skin's still intact. Cadmir? Astarr? Wait, he's dead, isn't he?"

"I prefer not to think about it," said Screema stiffly.

"Too late, you're thinking," Rogghart retorted. "Go on, give us a name…wait just one damned moment, not _Vylornar?_ "

"Leave him alone," said Helena, giving the Orc a shove. "You know he's more stubborn than you. And for gods' sake, don't go rattling off all their names, you'll bring us bad luck."

"I don't believe in luck," Rogghart growled, "only skill." He nodded to Screema-Lei. "That's one thing we agree on, right?"

"Right," the latter muttered, and promptly returned to his book.

Nurr glanced wryly at Lio. "That's the longest I've ever heard him last in conversation."

"He's improving," Lio agreed, and turned to the women across the flames. "Banviel?"

The Bosmer spellsword rolled her eyes. "Come on, I have the most boring backstory of all of you. You know me; I'm a Blade, my parents were Blades, and my grandparents were Blades. It's rather repetitive like that."

"That still doesn't grant you immunity," Nurr pointed out.

Banviel sighed. "Point. Fine. My mum and dad you might've known—Nurr, you _definitely_ knew—in your initiate days, Vaena and Gelwin Tanthalas. Esteemed dragonslayers, talented with both bow and sword, though my mother studied the magical arts when she could as in her day we had few mages and she had magical sensitivity. She always considered the fact that she might not be pure Bosmer, her ancestry's rather clouded, so I might have other kinds of elven blood in me."

"See?" Lio grinned. "That's an interesting bit of your past we didn't know about."

"You did know about it, you just forgot," Banviel returned with an exasperated sigh. "Anyway, you can gather I'm one of the few Blades born into the Order. Huzzah for me, I'm special. I grew up aware of my destiny, but I was orphaned suddenly. While participating in a lair raid, the dragon Paalnorokaus claimed their lives in a single stream of dragonfire."

"Ouch," muttered Rogghart.

"I remember," said Nurr, subdued. He remembered Banviel's parents well. Upon joining the Blades Order, he'd trained primarily under Gelwin's guidance, once it was discovered he had a natural eye and talent for marksmanship. Barely a year after his blading as a full Knight Brother, Gelwin, Vaena, and a party of Blades left to raid the lair of a loyalist, Paalnorokaus. Five went to slay the beast, and only two returned alive; another Blade, a Breton mage named Benethor, had been bitten clean in two.

"So do I," Lio murmured. "A terrible day for the Order."

"Most little girls would've broken down and hate the world," Banviel continued, "but though I grieved, I was only angry. What am I? I was all three; I was clean, then I was an orphan, and then became an avenger. When I was first initiated, I resolved—as do all initiates, of course—that I'd become the best Blade the world had ever seen, to honour their memories, and all the dragons in the world ought to beware." She laughed suddenly. "And I know I'm not the first to say that."

"Not a chance," Rogghart grinned.

"All initiates do _not_ say that overused statement," Nurr interjected. "I didn't."

"Yeah, well, when _you_ were first initiated you were a bit of a surly git," Rogghart replied, chuckling. "I'm amazed you managed to crack. Now you're a tolerable surly git."

"I love you too, ugly."

On the grate over the fire, the pot gurgled. "Soup's ready," Helena announced, and attended to it.

"Hell," said Rogghart slyly, "if you stand up, you volunteer to tell the story of your tragic past."

Helena smirked. "Who said anything about getting up?"

She pulled six bowls, six spoons and a ladle from her knapsack and laid them out in front of her. Nurr suddenly had a nasty suspicion of what was coming, but before he could protest, Helena's attention turned to the pot. Both hands stretched out in front of her. They clenched, then the fingers splayed open, and the pot lid gently rose amid a released cloud of silver steam. She set it down, levitated the ladle, and inserted it into the soup, stirring as the first bowl ghosted to it. The ladle rose again and served a healthy dollop, then a second, and the bowl was sent to Lio, landing lightly in his outstretched hands. The same procedure repeated until everyone was served, before the ladle was replaced in the pot, the lid went on top, and spoons glided to waiting individuals.

Nurr plucked his piece of cutlery from the air with a groan. "Thank you, Helena, for once again demonstrating how you don't need to get up to feed yourself or others in a three-yard radius."

"Hey, it's dinner with entertainment," chuckled Lio. "I'm not complaining."

"You never do," Nurr retorted. "You don't count."

"And I believe," Helena declared triumphantly, "that I did not volunteer."

Rogghart grumbled into his soup. "Forgot she did that."

"But, because I'm a team player, why not?" Helena grinned. "I'm a fortunate one. I'm clean."

"That _is_ fortunate," said Banviel. "So your parents are still alive?"

"I believe so," Helena replied, "but my dad raised me. I was lucky to grow up in the greenwood, what use to be known as the forests of Falkreath. He was the kind of man who looked after people, and I whiled away my childhood discovering my magical potential."

"The greenwood, you say?" said Lio, surprised. "That's a queer place indeed. And Blood dragons are drawn to those woods like flies to a corpse."

" _Gosvahgraag_ is located close to the midlands border," Helena told him, "and our neighbouring town _Krosonjoor_ was only a half-day's gallop from where we were. The Bloods own the deepest wood where there's no civilization at all, and it's all treacherous wilderness. They're very territorial; they rarely venture too far from the patch of forest they call their own. It proved true enough with us, at least. If dragons ever bothered us, it was when they performed a census one year; Dragonlord Cadmir and a party of dragonmen shattered our peace. That was the only time in my childhood when I was truly terrified. But it wasn't as bad as I've heard other censuses in other towns have gone. The dragonmen roughhoused us a bit, and Cadmir's dragon ate the city's criminals, but that was all they did."

"Wow," said Rogghart. "That's all? Geez, you _did_ have it lucky."

"That's _all?_ " Banviel exclaimed. "You mean it's worse?"

"Much worse," Rogghart answered gravely. "I forget, you never grew up in a legal population. The dragons don't even know you exist. It's definitely worse. When they did a census of Markarth—probably in the same year, those things are mercifully infrequent—every single citizen was dragged, and I speak literally, into the plaza, from old men barely able to stand to babies. Simply put, they were horrific. The kids were scared and cried. The infants cried. The dragonmen ordered the parents to shut them up, and if they failed to…"

He put a hand to his brow. "Ah shit, don't make me say it."

"Divines," Banviel whispered in growing horror. "They didn't…? They didn't…!"

"Oh, they did," Rogghart growled. "Some dragonmen are as despicable as the World-Eater himself, in all his accursed glory. They look for any excuse to kill, and it doesn't matter how old the victims are." He rolled his shoulders. "Ready for a sequel? There was this family, innocent enough, the guy worked sixteen hours a day as a miner. His wife had given birth a few days ago. The baby did what babies do, cry. She tried, she did, to soothe her child, and failed. My mother intervened when a dragonman showed the family his blade. He shoved her aside, and she punched him in the face."

Nurr's ears pricked. "So that's where your violent streak came from."

Rogghart's grin returned briefly. "The memory's bittersweet. Nothing escapes a Dragonlord, and Cadmir was present. He wouldn't stand for her insolence, he said; so he sat, on his dragon's neck, as it devoured her."

Banviel's hand clapped over her mouth.

"And you want to hear the best bit?" Rogghart's brow twisted. "She was only the appetizer. The family she died to defend followed."

"And I thought Ollos was the cruel one," Helena murmured.

"Its name was Zoornahldir," Rogghart scowled. "Most of you know I suck with dragon names, especially with the pronouncing part, but I made certain never to forget that one bloody name, just in case he ever came within range of Blade attention."

"So you are an avenger, then," Nurr observed.

Rogghart snorted. "Avengers have a grudge to all the beasts. I don't hold grudges. With that one, however, I make an exception." He shot Helena an apologetic look. "Sorry, Hell, I stole your spotlight there."

"No worries," Helena replied, with a hesitant smile. "You definitely take the bestseller backstory award, Rogghart. I can't top that. My past life really is boring. I left home. I developed my magical talent. I attracted Blade attention. I joined, trained, and was initiated. That's it. The end."

"The end indeed," said Lio, setting his empty bowl aside. "We should all turn in for the night."

"Is this to escape having to share your traumatic past with us?" Rogghart asked, grinning again.

"Not at all," Lio smiled. "I'm an open book. But the night is getting on and we've a long ride ahead of us tomorrow. Helena, you're on cleanup."

"I'm always on cleanup," she protested.

"Yes, but you're the only one of us who doesn't have to get her hands dirty with the chore."

"Very funny. Fine, you lazy louts. I'll take first watch."

The morning came too soon, and before Nurr was properly awake, he was back in the saddle facing another long day of riding. The mist was clearing, though the sky had turned overcast, and there was the scent of rain the air. Dragonsong rumbled around them, eerily distorted, and though visibility remained reduced, Nurr was still put at the head of the group with Screema-Lei. His ears would alert them if the dragons were getting close—the infernal creatures could be as blatant as a thunderclap or unexpected as lightning when they chose to be.

The suspected rain came down just past midday, and soon the rivers swelled and the tracks turned to mud. Riding became a perilous business, so all had to dismount and lead the cautious animals on foot—and when the rain showed no sign of slowing or stopping, Lio ordered to turn for shelter, wait out the rain, and continue through the night. It was too dangerous to risk scaling the mountain paths in this weather; the horses were practiced at scaling pathless cliffs, but hooves were hooves and mud was treacherous.

Shelter was not found for another hour, and the one they discovered was especially cramped. The six of them could barely fit knee to knee with their backs to the rain, so they covered their horses with their cloaks and left them outside to endure the icy downpour while they shivered inside and carefully dried themselves and their weapons the best they could. Nurr was especially annoyed. Rainwater had soaked his arrows' fletching and puddled in his quiver, despite being covered with his heavy cloak.

"Dragons," said Lio brightly, "enjoy rain about as much as we do."

"Dragons," Nurr retorted, "can clear bad weather with three words."

"Dragons," grinned Rogghart, "are going to die tonight."

Screema-Lei, comfortable in the wet, went on foot to scout ahead.

Nurr wished mournfully for ale.

The rain began to ease as nightfall closed in, and knowledge of the task began to weigh in the minds of the idle Blades. On unspoken word, from a sense gained from their days of dragonslaying, they knew battle was mere hours away and prepared themselves accordingly. Nurr ran his fingers along the drying fletching of his arrows. It only took one to kill a beast, even a dragon, when placed right.

"All of you have killed before," Lio murmured. "Dragons have fallen to your blades. You know your strengths. You know their weaknesses. You know your places. You know your enemy."

No answer was required; Nurr had heard these words before. He'd even said them, though they definitely sound more inspiring coming from Lio. _One shot is all I need._ He frowned.

"Wing first," said Banviel sternly. "If he senses defeat, we can't have him escaping."

"If I get one clear shot underneath his jaw," Helena mused, "I can silence him long enough for us to inflict damage to his head."

"With blood in his eyes he won't see the arrow coming," Nurr muttered.

"We strike hard and fast," Rogghart declared. "Give him no opportunity to unleash his Thu'um."

"As a Red, his Voice may expand to Shouts we do not anticipate," said Lio. "We leave nothing to chance. Expect the unexpected."

Nurr studied his arrowhead. "One less dragon to worry ourselves with when it's over," he said softly. With a pointed glance from Lio, he added, "If." Nothing was certain. Even the youngest, most inexperienced brown-skinned dragon juvenile was capable of killing a seasoned Blade. It only took one misstep, one oversight, one seized opportunity, and battle's favour would turn.

 _When a warrior forgets this, he forgets how to anticipate—and he will die._

Ploughed footsteps heralded Screema-Lei's return.

"About bloody time," Rogghart grunted, and as one the Blades rose. "So, Screema? Is that bastard nearby?"

"The lair's close," Screema-Lei answered huskily, "much closer than I remember. The horses must be left here." His slanted eyes gleamed. "Lotjoorkriid is home. It is time to pay this mortal eater a visit."

Blades were drawn; magic crackled into life; and Nurr drew down his bow and cast all thoughts from his mind but those in relevance to the present.

The rain had ceased at last, and the first watchful stars appeared between drifts of cloud in the darkening sky. The mud did well to muffle their footsteps as they ascended the cliffs.

One way forward, no turning back; time to meet hell and the firestorm head-on.

 **d|b**


	15. XIV - Firestorm

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

Pyrus had once heard it said that a battle between two dragons was, in truth, only a deadly verbal debate. The two dragons roared and screamed, but he noticed that they fought, and violently; there seemed little discussion between the two monstrous creatures.

Both were of a size with one another, and both looked to be as strong. The speed and strength at which they fought astonished him. They were as comfortable in the air as men were upon the ground; twisting and spinning, using every inch of themselves as a weapon, the dragons quarreled. Their vast maws clapped and snapped at the opponent's flesh, long fangs thrust together with shattering force, their sword-like talons slashing at chest and back and wings, their thick, solid tails sweeping in wide arcs in the hopes of winding or breaking bone. And when they drew breath and spoke in the glorious tongue of the dragons—the unholy Thu'um—the most incredible maneuvers were taken to evade the mortal blasts of fire, ice, or other things.

In one such case, Pyrus glimpsed the source of their issue; his stomach flipped at the sight of arms and legs and tattered clothes splashed red in places. The dragons were fighting over a mortal meal, a villager plucked from the streets of the city.

He would have been revolted if he hadn't been entranced with the fight itself.

 _They are willing to fight and destroy over the most menial of matters, and are prepared to slay their own if it means they profit. They claim immortality and power and prowess, and believe themselves so much above the ways of mortals—but they are no different from us._

They were to leave. The census was complete, and Vylornar would go. And Pyrus, for all his ecstasy and courtesy and hope, had learned nothing. Not a single secret had been uttered to him. Nothing had been gained but stories and history.

 _And Vylornar does not, or refuses to, see me as an equal._

He was angry. He'd been angry since the Dragonlord's departure from their meeting two evenings ago. Pyrus had wanted nothing more than knowledge, and the master pyromancer had denied him even that. Yesterday he'd watched Vylornar move throughout the College, heard frightened mages whispering in his wake, and the few bold enough to speak spoke with him, telling history and present and future intentions. It was plain that they were relieved at the thought of his leaving. The dragons terrified them.

 _They do not frighten me. Why should they frighten me?_ Pyrus stared moodily at the dragons. One had sustained a wound, and the battle had turned in the favour of the beast competing for the mortal prize. _They are a people, just like us, as ancient and rightful as the Aldmer and Atmorans. They are conquerors. They seek dominion over Tamriel as did the human heroes Ysgramor and Reman Cyrodiil. They have it, and now they rule it, and I am a faithful subject they pay no heed to. They dismiss me as just another sympathizer to the dragon cause. They do not understand, or they do not want to. Why?_ Anger roared through him. His fingers burned with heat, almost steaming in the chill air. The dragons howled as they collided. There was the sound of ripping flesh and a shrill shriek.

 _I am capable. I am powerful. I am everything that Vylornar was when he slew the Revered, when a lieutenant of Alduin found him standing over its corpse. Why shouldn't I be recognized?_

Pyrus turned his attention from the fighting dragons and paced slowly on the balcony. _I am nothing up here. Nothing but another frigid face they do not care to know._ Perhaps it was time. He could be of great service to this new world. This College could offer him nothing, while they offered him everything. He'd dedicated himself to the pursuit of knowledge of fire, and now it meant his road deviated from this College and this frozen north.

 _To further myself in the art of the flame, I must leave this place—and if it means I must become one with the dragon armies, then so be it. Fire purifies. I must learn its secrets._ He smiled to himself, though it was without mirth. _There is nothing for me here, only ice and scorn._ He opened his palm and flames flickered into life, bright and hot with his bitterness. _Seventeen years is long enough._

A deafening cry turned his attention back to the battle beyond. The two dragons fought outside the College, suspended over the Sea of Ghosts. It was apparent the fight was subsiding; there was definitely a winner. The challenger had opened a wound on its opponent before; now it had dislocated a wing. How the defender had screamed, and it screamed still as, unable to suspend itself, it plummeted like a stone, all grace and agility gone. The challenger, now victor, dived after it, and as it rose again it carried only its prize in its talons. It hovered with eyes fixed on the descending defeated, and after a moment Pyrus heard a mighty splash.

The victor made a rough sound in the depths of its throat—a laugh, perhaps—before tilting its wings. It flew straight for the College, rose high above the roofs, and came to rest upon the highest tower, no doubt to enjoy the flesh of its labours.

"I don't understand how you can watch them."

Pyrus glanced over his shoulder. Brangwen stood there like one who'd been silent witness for some time before she'd spoken. Her amber eyes had followed the dragon up to the tower, and she cast them upon Pyrus in disbelief. "How?" she asked faintly. "How can you watch those things so…closely?"

Impatience pricked his skin. "Dragons are as fascinating," he said, "as they are brutal."

"The less we have to do with them, the better." She joined him, deliberately avoiding looking at the tower. "I'm just glad they're leaving."

Pyrus had no comment.

"I hear you and the Dragonlord spent time together a couple of days ago," Brangwen said quietly. "You invited him into your study."

"And if I did?" he said.

"Pyrus, he's a dangerous man," Brangwen insisted. "To call him a man does him too much honour. He's a monster. All who serve the World-Eater become monsters. The dragons corrupt them into mortal enforcers of their every whim, and Vylornar is no different. How could you involve yourself so willingly in such treacherous things?"

Poor sweet Brangwen, who believed in the extinct good to be found in the world. Pyrus pitied her. "I respect the man for his skill," he said softly, "nothing more."

"You have skill enough. Easily you best the College's master of destruction, everyone knows. There is no need to further yourself in that path. What you have learned would satisfy ten lifetimes' worth of scholars."

"I do not live to _satisfy_ myself," Pyrus growled. "I live to _learn_. Fire is who I am, Brangwen, and fire is never content. It grows or it fades, always hungry. I must fulfill it and myself."

"There are other ways," Brangwen urged, "better ways that avoid bloodshed and death. The dragons will give you only that, and Vylornar…!" Anger sharpened her gentle voice. "That tyrant doesn't respect anything but the dragons. He turned his back on mortality and mankind long ago. Don't become him, Pyrus. Please. You're better than that."

It was strange; her words soothed the anger in him, helped him see sense. He looked at her thoughtfully, at the quiet plea in her round eyes, brooded over the certainty of the way she spoke. She was a good woman, a fine mage—but she stood in another world to him. She couldn't understand him, nor persuade him. His mind was set.

He offered a thin smile. "The only way that I can live is to burn," he said. "But I have my pride. Vylornar shamed me." Fury stirred once more in his veins. He pulled away from Brangwen's touch. "My very existence is a shame. Half-Altmer, half-human…each time he called me _kinsman_ he mocked me, and in my gullibility I smiled and thought so highly of myself. I was naïve and never saw it. Of course he would not share with me the secrets of the flame while I was unworthy. Dragons respect only those who demonstrate power and ambition, that much I learned from my encounter. And when Vylornar sees, he will see me differently."

Fire sprang from both his palms, a flash of orange, and then he quelled them and they were away.

Brangwen only stared at him in dismay. "You want to challenge him?"

"I will do more than that," he snarled. "I will bring him to his knees, before all eyes of dragons and men. I will show him true power, just how much the flame and I are one." _We all fight each other, after all—dragon to dragon, talon to talon, and fire to fire._

"You cannot beat a Dragonlord," Brangwen exclaimed, "especially Vylornar—the dragons have taught him the secrets of fire! He'll destroy you!"

"Once Vylornar slew a Revered, far greater and stronger than him; and I intend only to shame him, to leave him something to remember me by. I am no weakling." Pyrus stalked past her, suddenly tired of the sight of her. "Even the dragons will know my name," he whispered to himself, conscious of the great heat building in his limbs and burning in his soul. "I am worthy of their notice."

"Pyrus!" Brangwen shouted, but he ignored her. He did not look back. The dragon atop the tower had gone. _And soon so shall them all, and I am damned if I let Vylornar leave without fire at his heels._

The cold no longer stung; the heat was in him, the embers leaping to a blaze. Pyrus swept across the bridge. Dragons circled overhead, calling to one another in their restlessness, their eagerness to be away from the bitter north. Dragonmen were assembling once more in the streets. He saw the fresh ruins of a burned house and wondered if that was where the unfortunate victim had lived, where the fight between the two dragons had begun.

He descended the stairs and was at the end of the main road when he saw him. Vylornar was sharing final words with the fool warden Whitegate. His wingsteed Ausnahyol crouched quietly behind them, his gleaming eyes fixed upon them both. No doubt he was treasuring every word spoken, and the old man was nervous under the beast's penetrating stare.

Pyrus waited.

At last Vylornar stepped back and turned away from Themmen, and as he turned to speak with the fire-coloured dragon, he fell still, then slowly turned. Pyrus felt the heat of his stare from afar, but gone was his will to impress, his courtesy and respect; the Dragonlord was to be humbled this day, at the hands of the half-elven Greatfire. Nobody would forget.

Vylornar offered a smile, brazen beneath his hood. "Now how may I help you, Pyrus?" he called.

Those who hadn't noticed him before did now; beasts and dragonmen turned, watching him. Pyrus lifted his chin and prepared himself. _Dragons fight with words. I'll play no such game._ "I want nothing but a demonstration of ability," he shouted back. "Prove to me that you are worthy of the title Dragonlord!"

His bold words had inspired anger, but not upon Vylornar. Indeed, he seemed rather amused. "So this is the new approach in the wake of your dissatisfaction, kinsman," he said. "Logic has left you, and in its place you have welcomed recklessness."

Fury burned red in Pyrus's mind, and flame ignited in his hands. "You think yourself so above me!" he roared. "Give me reason to believe why!"

Vylornar's smile didn't change. "Go home, Greatfire," was all he said, and then he turned away.

Pyrus did not. _The simplest wisdom of war to know; never turn your back on an enemy!_

The fire swelled, until it could not be contained. He brought both hands together and a fireball took flight, formed in half a heartbeat.

And it shattered before it ever reached its target, dispelled in an instant. Vylornar had not been caught unawares. The Dragonlord turned back with a ward already blooming from his fingertips, as though he'd expected it.

He smiled still. He remained amused.

A great hush had fallen on the plaza. The dragons above circled in silence, heads dipped to the ground, observing in keen interest. Vylornar lowered his arms and assumed a stance for battle in one smooth motion, but he made no offensive move. _He waits to receive, to witness my attack._ Pyrus was only too happy to oblige.

His world became a haze of orange and red. He conjured a second fireball, and hurled it. It seemed its course was clear, but Pyrus had delved deeper into the secrets of the flame; it was still in his control even after it had left his hands. He clenched a fist and brought it down and the fireball dog-legged into the snow at Vylornar's feet, sending up a vast plume of steam. The screen was only a minor distraction; it gave Pyrus enough time to prepare another attack. Into the air he rapidly projected firebolts, smaller and weaker than fireballs, but—as he had discovered—devastating in numbers, when they all fell at once to one concentrated area. By the time Vylornar's visibility had been restored, Pyrus drew his hovering flares together and sent them smashing down in a rain of fire.

Yet again, the Dragonlord disappeared behind orange steam. Pyrus grinned—this was easy—but his triumph was short-lived. In one smooth motion the veil disappeared, and Vylornar cast a fireball of his own.

Pyrus summoned his ward in time, already preparing a counterattack as the fire broke around him in a fierce red shower. The instant his visibility returned he dropped his ward and sent one fireball at Vylornar, aimed for his ward, while a second struck the ground at his feet, blinding him. Pyrus summoned his strength, brought both hands together, and unleashed a third, greater in power than the previous two, colliding against his surely disorientated opponent.

In the lull that followed, Pyrus drew himself up, deeply satisfied with himself. Some of the heat in him had waned somewhat, but it would regenerate in moments. He stared at the slowly rising cloud of steam, waiting for the aftermath of his efforts.

It shifted suddenly, breaking around the form of Vylornar, who strode through it, quite unhurt.

"You show skill, Pyrus," he said. His tone was pleasant, but his smile was gone.

His victory, however small, made Pyrus bold. "I see none from you," he called. "There are apprentices in the College who fight better!"

Vylornar slowly shook his head. "You asked for a demonstration of my ability, did you not?" he said. "Then allow me to demonstrate."

A low, menacing rumble echoed from Ausnahyol, a sound that was swiftly taken up by the other dragons. Their attention seemed to sharpen. Pyrus looked at them briefly, but the Dragonlord remained his full attention. This fight was far from done. It hadn't even started.

"Enough with wards, a teacher's defense," Vylornar said disdainfully. "I would like to see how you fare with your weapon as your shield. Fire is best fought with fire." And with these words his palms opened and such the element ignited there; but it was no mere fistful of flames, but twin streams that rose high into the air, coiling and twisting like snakes. The dragons bellowed. Pyrus stared.

They were no serpents, he realized, but whips.

Vylornar brought them down together, and Pyrus barely saved himself, hurling himself face-down into the snow as the twin lethal streams of flame swept over his head. At once he was upright. The firestreams came sweeping back around with speed that defied comprehension. Fireballs swelled between his fingers, and Pyrus sent them straight for the Dragonlord.

At once the two streams converged, slicing cleanly through the blaze and dispersing it in a single fluid rush. Vylornar drew his arms back. His eyes glowed like young embers beneath his hood, and his face was shadowed black.

Pyrus suspected what was coming. He sent a stream of fire at his feet with one hand, another to the sky with the other, then pushed his wrists together. His fingers turned and locked, and he flung his arms wide, a shield of red created before him to withstand the punishing blows of the blazing strands.

They were stronger than he anticipated. His shield shattered with the second strike, and the force of its dispersal made him stagger. Vylornar was already drawing them round again, but he appeared to have tired of the long whips of flame; his hands came together and opened outward at the wrist, and one long jet of fierce amber burned free, swelling in size as it did in length. Pyrus sent a fireball in his defense, and as the two met the explosion that followed sent tremors through the ground, the force and heat knocking him clean off his feet.

Pyrus was dazed only for a moment. He rolled back into a standing position. Vylornar had withdrawn, but it seemed only to gather energy. His hands circled each other, a fierce glow building between the two palms. It swelled swiftly in size, yet as Pyrus prepared for the fireball, the Dragonlord abruptly brought his two hands together.

He'd compressed the energy that demanded release—and too late did Pyrus realize what the pyromancer intended to do.

The firewave burst free, expanding in a vast half-circle that Pyrus could barely withstand. His ward was poorly formed, and though it accepted the brunt of the attack, he did not completely escape its wrath. Suddenly pain like nothing he'd ever known seized his midsection, and he was thrown back, landed heavily on his front. The ice penetrated his burned robes and pressed against his burned flesh, and agony surged through him uncontrolled. It was incredible. For a moment he couldn't move with it.

Yet he found he was pushing himself back up, pain giving way to overwhelming rage and shame, so much of it that he was dizzy with it. He could no longer stand straight, and his robes were no longer whole—the icy air burned his scorched abdomen worse than the flames—yet he still had strength. His anger fed his fire, and he unleashed it in a storm of his own. The force of its meeting Vylornar's resistance made the Dragonlord stagger, almost lose his footing. In that Pyrus drew savage satisfaction.

The pyromancer rose, hands flexing. Pyrus sensed the attack, and a surge of adrenalin gave him the strength to cast about himself a sphere of flame. He lost sight of his opponent as fire enclosed him, but heard and felt Vylornar's attacks rebound off his defense's exterior. Again he smiled wickedly to himself.

And again, his triumph was doomed to sudden death.

There was a fierce glare of yellow and he staggered, squinting. His sphere of fire dissolved around him, and Vylornar was already preparing another round of what had broken Pyrus's defense. Long, concentrated lances of flame came hurling at him like javelins, and each bore tremendous strength. He lost all dignity and defended in panic, each weaker than the last, until he did not raise a ward in time and the firelance took him through the ribs.

He screamed until there was no air left in his lungs. The fire in his hands spluttered and died as they pressed to his side in a futile attempt to suppress the risen pain. They tensed in horror; he couldn't look away from the opponent, but he could feel the damage, he felt bone and blood, a whole part of him missing, the flesh between two ribs burned away from front to back.

If he could draw breath, Pyrus would have forsaken everything and begged for mercy.

Vylornar was called 'the Firestorm' by his defeated enemies, and he was witness to why. The Dragonlord vanished behind a flare of burning gold and auburn, but they were made of flames, and Pyrus could do nothing to resist. The force of its meeting him hurled him back, the ground vanished under his feet, then reappeared under him, the cold at first even more terrible than the heat, for how it burned as it met his skin.

He found no strength to rise again.

There was no air. He could draw no breath, and he panicked again. _I'm drowning. I'm drowning._ The faintest effort lit torment in his lungs, and he could only suffer. His endurance deserted him, he saw only blackness though his eyes were open, and he was suffocating, because he was too weak and too afraid to breathe.

He felt a shadow move above, heard a voice that seemed no louder than a whisper utter, "What a pity. You showed such potential. I might have considered you worthy, you know—if not for your human stupidity." Then it was away, and there was another voice, one he almost recognized, calling out to him, calling his name.

 _Brangwen,_ Pyrus thought, and thought no more.

 **d|b**


	16. XV - A Wolf Among Sheep

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

 _Scythe_ , Estilde called her greatsword, and the last person who'd touched it found himself a head shorter. So she said as she sat grooming it on a whetstone. Chase full-heartedly believed her.

"But why do you care, dog?" Estilde inquired, not looking up. "Swords are as pointless as idiots, according to your logic."

"You cling to it like a pup to its mother's teat," Chase replied with a toothy smile. "Of course it makes me curious."

Estilde snorted. "You wouldn't think she'd be cocky on the human side."

Chase smirked. "I can die like this," she said, "but so can you, and you have no other skin to change into when you fight. Or when it's cold."

"I don't _need_ another skin when I fight," Estilde replied. "Scythe and I make short work of anyone." She paused and raised it into the air, admiring its honed edge. "Short work with a long sword," she added, half to herself.

"It's rather ungainly, don't you think?" Chase frowned. All that swinging and swatting seemed rather stupid to her. _Why hold back behind all that steel? Get in close and spill his guts into his arms. That's far simpler._

"To you, perhaps," Estilde said, with a derisive noise. "There's a lot of power behind the blows. Heads are swept from shoulders, spines are severed, and limbs are cut clean off. Scythe does all the work. I just hang on for the ride."

"Yes, the metal does all the work." Chase sighed. "I pity you, you know. You'll never know the sensation of tearing arms and legs from torsos, or the satisfying way a spine crunches between your jaws, or the pleasure of twisting a head from the body in your own hand."

Estilde stared at her with a curled lip. "Just keep your bloody fantasies to yourself, and I'll keep Scythe from having a taste of the bones in your neck." She promptly resumed sharpening the weapon, and Chase turned away.

Evening was falling fast over the camp, and the twin moons were full in welcome to the new month about to dawn. A cool breeze wafted over the barricades, and Chase inhaled deeply, savouring the tempting scents of earth and grass and distant prey. Truly, there was no finer night for a hunt, and the familiar lust was stirring deep in her veins.

"Oh, no you're not," Estilde growled, and Chase glanced at her in surprise. "Chieftain's orders. You stay in the camp tonight."

A growl rumbled deep in her throat. "Gramu can't hold me back."

" _His orders._ He's had enough of you hunting."

Chase curled her lip. "If I don't feed, I get very tetchy."

"Maybe eat some normal human food for once," Estilde retorted. "Have you ever tried it? Or did those brutes that supposedly raised you never tell you that sometimes you walk on two legs and don't possess fangs?"

The growl grew louder. "You don't insult my pack," Chase warned dangerously.

Estilde chucked her chin. "And what will you do, dog? Bark at me?"

The moons were bright and whole, and the lust in her was so powerful she could hardly contain it. _Maybe I don't have to…_ "I see a bloody fantasy in my mind," she hissed. "I'm twisting limbs, snapping spines, and crushing a skull that bears your face." Her skin was itching. She changed faster than men thought possible.

"Stop that!" A sharp voice intervened, and Chase snapped around. "Stand down, _now_." Reluctantly she obeyed. "Estilde, quit tormenting the dog. You know full well she doesn't bark. Given the opportunity, she'll go straight for the bite."

"Where the hell have you been?" Chase demanded of Amos.

The Redguard hefted his warhammer over one shoulder. "Patrol down the west road," he answered. "Waste of time, really. It's all quiet. Spotted a dragon feeding near the marshes, a mile or so south of _Ofanaat_ , but we left it alone. Not much we can scavenge from a corpse when one of those ungodly beast's been at it."

Chase's teeth itched. "I wouldn't mind a taste."

"You're insane," he returned. "I'm not going anywhere near a dragon, and if I get through the rest of my life without encountering one, I'll die a happy man."

"You're no fun at all," she grumbled. "And who does Gramu think he is, to deny me a night like this?" She gestured to the full sky. "Moonlight is ambrosia to lycanthropes—so imagine what it does to me, _pureborn_. If I don't kill something tonight I'm going to go mad."

"Tough," said Amos, unsympathetic. "So long as he's leader, Gramu's word is law."

"Have to agree with Amos on that one," Estilde added. "The Warglutton didn't come to be chieftain of this clan by playing nice with people. The last person who didn't follow orders got dumped headless in the river."

It was all decapitation with these bandits. "He can play his leading game and swing his ungainly weapon about on the rest of you," said Chase curtly. "He has no power over me. I stay for the blood and the death. Not for the wealth." Her reward was found in the glory of the hunt, as it was with all wolves of this world.

Yet Gramu seemed intent on now depriving her of that. When they'd attacked the dragonmen patrol a few days ago, he hadn't let her devour all of the fallen. Now he intended to have her remain behind in the smoky encampment on such an excellent night, the final of midsummer Sun's Height and the first of latesummer Last Seed, with the moons full and shining, and the wilderness ripe with prey. Oh, she'd easily disobey her chieftain for a chance like this. Easily. _There are only two voices in this world I answer to, and he is not one of them!_

And both those wolves would heartily applaud a hunt.

Amos's dark eyes locked on her, Chase could feel them, before he said, "Estilde, I'm going to take our dog for a walk."

"Thank whatever's sacred that somebody's taking the initiative," Estilde replied.

Chase got up and followed Amos deeper into the camp. She was growing restless, and almost releasing herself upon Scythe's owner had only riled her further. "I don't care about religion," she said aloud, "or about your gods old and new—and nor does Gramu. But he can get through that thick skull of his that wolves must hunt, and each kill I make is in glory of my goddess mother."

Amos snorted. "You just said you don't care for religion."

"No sermons, no preaching, no altars or fool beliefs," Chase defended. "All Lupa asks for is offerings, and only the offerings of the hunt will ever inspire her presence. She is the mother of every wolf." Eyes followed her and she looked around. Different areas of the leveled encampment produced different kinds of bandits. These were ones who'd joined the clan after her, and still regarded her in caution. Chase tasted their sweet fear and growled in growing frustration. "I hunger. I must feed, before I sate myself on one of these milk-drinkers."

"Feed on something other than raw flesh," said Amos. The next area of the camp, Chase found herself standing in front of a cooking fire. "Try it seasoned and roasted."

Her eyes followed the progress of a goat on a spit, slowly turning above the crackling blaze, and she snorted derisively. "I didn't make this kill. Its flesh means nothing to me."

"Well, it's this or nothing. Choose."

Chase glared, but Amos folded his arms and glared back. The bandits at the fireside watched with interest. Her hunger throbbed in her like an unhealed wound, and for a moment she considered going through the night hungry—but moonlight did more than entrance wolves, it awoke in them a fierce need to kill and devour. She could not ignore the raw emptiness that grew in her, not even with the thought of offending her pride.

She looked away as she answered, "Fine."

"Thought so." Amos moved to the pit, caught the cleaver tossed to him, and hewed off the animal's haunch. "And if this doesn't sate that wolfish appetite of yours, tough; the rest of us petty mortals have to eat too."

Chase reluctantly joined him by the fire, tempted to sulk. "If there was ever a time I ate as little as you, I don't ever recall," she muttered sourly, as the other gathered bandits began cutting slivers of goat meat for themselves.

Her appetite had been a marvel even among her pack. As a pup she could drink her wet nurse dry, and often had to be restrained to allow her littermates to feed. In her childhood the pack respected her great hunger, and admired at how at the age of nine winters she was capable of devouring an entire deer on her own. She was hunting with them then, and quickly grew to be the largest, strongest and fastest of her pack; she became _shay'k-sh'aghar_ , the greatest hunter, the infamous red wolf of the north, and in the north the wolves lived long hard lives. The same alpha that had adopted her into the pack had been the same to send her away, to find a place in the human world and a higher fate.

 _And this is where I've come,_ she scowled, worrying at the goat flesh with her blunt woman teeth. _A savage brute, a dog in chains. Gramu thinks he can hold me back._ Oh, she intended to hunt, for the glory of the twin moons, for her goddess mother—even for the Huntsman himself.

And not for the first time since their meeting, Chase brooded on Lupa's words to her. _Desecration to the hunt…dragons burning the forests…the wolves take anger to this, and grow bolder._ There were many packs of the ancient-blooded scattered through Skyrim alone, the long-lived hunters who the wolf-wife favoured as her own. _Now they grow angry. For more than a century the dragons have styled themselves the kings and queens of this bloody realm. Humans cower in fear. We shadows flee in terror. The moons are darkened with scaled wings and the darkness of night banished in the fierceness of flame._

Oh, she'd heard word of her kindred's doings in the westhold, attacking the villages, their deeds gaining infamy as more and more were felled to their vengeful maws. _A glorious hunt indeed,_ Chase thought, cracking the bones to get at the marrow. _One I now wonder if I should miss._ Her goddess mother claimed that she had already made for herself a bloody destiny, that she'd found her place—but she feared for her children, turning wayward in their growing resentment.

 _My pack is prepared to hunt dragons._ Excitement kindled in her veins. _And I am prepared to taste their flesh. Why should I not be with them?_

She threw the dry bones aside. _My hunger has grown. I eat too much. Should I return, I must starve myself. The pack must feed as well, and there is not enough to provide for all._

Yet Gramu would see her starve here. He denied her the pleasure of the flesh of the fallen and forbidden her from hunting on her strongest night. _Perhaps he fears me at last,_ she thought, with a satisfied smile. _The Warglutton can thrust his weapon into his enemies and take lives without a second glance, yet he too has seen how I have grown and thrived in the bloodshed and chaos that is our banditry. Now he seeks to place heavier chains at my throat. Does he think a wolf is weakened when it is starved? He is a fool if he does. A hungry wolf is made all the more determined. She will stop at nothing to feed._

So let him starve her; she would only grow stronger, until she could even devour _him_. _A bloody destiny indeed,_ Chase thought, and embraced a darker malevolence. _Gramu has dealt with mutiny before. Thrice, his life has been attempted by those in his clan he considered his own. The last he killed before his plans of mutiny ever came into play. But never has a werewolf sought his death with such vehement lust._ The time was not right now, but given it, that lust would grow until she knew she could crust the weakling man. The thought gave her pleasure. _And I will taste if he really is half-Orc as he claims._

Her fantasies were broken with a shriek.

Chase was on her feet at once, and the bandits around her ended whatever conversation they'd been enduring with a flourish of their weapons. "What in Oblivion?" Amos growled, warhammer in hand.

Now more cries were echoing through the rest of the encampment, but Chase had grown still. She could feel the vibrations in the earth—mortal footsteps running, and something else, a familiar four-foot stride she knew all too well.

And so when the source of the bandits' panic made itself known to her, clearing a barricade dividing one section of the camp from another, she felt no alarm, but nothing she thought or did could refrain from the amazement that held her still—for but a brief moment.

Amos lunged, but she was faster; she snatched the warhammer from his hands and tossed it far aside. When the other bandits around her made to attack, she stopped them with one fierce, guttural snarl that halted their advance in half a heartbeat.

Only then did she turn to the vast silver wolf that stood before her, head proud and erect, dark eyes glittering. There was not a trace of fear about him, though he was far from home and territory. It was as if he'd anticipated this meeting for many years.

" _Shay'k-sh'aghar_ ," he growled.

The wolf in her flattened its ears and bore its throat in submission, though the woman stood tall and still, disbelief sharp in her voice. "What in Lupa's name are you doing here?"

"Chase!" Amos stared warily at them both. "You know this beast?"

 _Of course I do._ Chase looked upon the Redguard in the same disdainful manner he looked upon her. _I am no dog, but a wolf—the red wolf,_ shay'k-sh'aghar _, the hunter of hunters._ "Look well and be humbled in your honour," she answered him. "The alpha of the wolves of the White Sun— _my_ alpha—stands before you all."

 **d|b**


	17. XVI - Lotjoorkriid

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

"And there he sleeps," Screema-Lei breathed. He pressed his shoulders against the stone and nodded over its edge. "Take care not to wake him."

Nurr, of course, went first. Even in heavy armour, long years of pursuing the ungodly creatures had enhanced his ability to move silently, for dragons took many by surprise when it came to the strength of their senses and how well some could hear. Reds weren't renowned for their ears—that title belonged to the Bloods and the Revered—but Nurr certainly wasn't going to leave it to chance.

He scaled the ridge and peered cautiously over the lip of the cliff.

The dragon den lay beneath him. From where he and the others were, it was a long fall to a grisly stony death. The hollow was well placed in the mountains, a broad opening at one end to allow winged entrance in and out, and a sheltered alcove where Lotjoorkriid slumbered over a floor strewn in gold and bones, sheltered from the rain. He must have been driven in there when the downfall began, and slept still in accordance with the risen night; some dragons found rain made them drowsy, and this oversized lizard was clearly no exception.

"He snores worse than Jor," he muttered.

This was the signal for his fellow Blades to flank him upon the cliff, scrabbling over the stone with muffled clanks of their gear. Lio fell into place alongside Nurr and whispered, "I don't suppose you could make this easier for us all and take the bastard out right here, right now?"

"Sorry to disappoint. His wing is covering his head."

"Then I guess we are going to have to dance tonight." Rogghart glanced sidelong at the others. "Plan remains?"

"Plan remains." They shrank back from the edge and, in hushed voices, continued to discuss.

"We all know our places," muttered Helena. "Just give the word."

"Right." Lio turned. "Screema. There's a path down to the den?"

The Argonian nodded. "It'll involve a bit of climbing, but it can be done."

"I'll stay above," Nurr suggested. "That way I can gain a sense of how he fights."

"Right, by using us as the fodder," Rogghart grunted. "Now I remember why I hate having you along."

"Well, too late to go for another master archer now," said Banviel, giving him a shove. "Nurr, whatever it takes for you to get a bead. We'll handle the big guy 'till you're ready."

Nurr was again reminded why he liked this plucky Bosmer. "You know my style," he hissed. "Until I get my shot I'll be ghosting. Lotjoorkriid should be taken from all sides, and from above."

Lio nodded. "Helena, you're needed down with Rogghart, Screema and I. Banviel, you'll stay up top. Use that lovely elven grace of yours to dazzle him before you come down. Nurr—" Here he offered a pointed glance. "—don't miss."

Nurr rolled his eyes. "The day I miss will be the day I die."

"Show-off," Rogghart muttered. "Okay, dragon hunters; let's go kick his arse."

Screema-Lei took the lead, and within moments the four were away. Only when Nurr was certain they were out of earshot did he turn to Banviel and breathe, "What do you ever see in him?"

Banviel grinned as she put on her helmet. "For me to know and you to find out, Jay-Jay."

Nurr reddened beneath his fur. "You were six when you first called me that."

"Yeah, but nobody forgets a name like that," she giggled, "not even your dear Blade Brothers."

"Shut up. And as to you and Rogg, I don't think I want to know anymore." Nurr climbed back up onto the cliff, Banviel at his side. "And don't try and get me asking."

"I know you too well, Dark Moon. I won't tease you." Banviel blinked a few times and cursed. "Damn. How do your people see so well in this pitch?"

Nurr chuckled softly. "I'm sure I've told you the story."

"A story's an excellent idea while we wait for the others to get into position." Banviel sighed. "They took two hours one time. I swear they were doing that just to annoy me. I'd been assigned as the eyes above, and it wasn't long after I'd been bladed."

Nurr snorted. "The first year after you receive your sword and title as Knight Brother—or Sister in your case—really is the worst. Nobody lets you forget you were an initiate. Thank the gods I at least could suffer through it with Lio. We were bladed together."

"That would explain your remarkable tolerance for that man," Banviel whispered, smiling. "You two can bicker and argue like an old married couple but there's never any doubt in anyone that you two are friends, and good ones."

"He and I get on," Nurr admitted. "Those who train together and earn their blades together usually build those friends-for-life bonds, and even I, grumpy and moody as I am, experienced that. I wouldn't be surprised if he succeeded Emilyn one day." He snorted. "Not that that day is ever going to come. Emilyn is not easy to kill. I doubt even the Dread could."

"I know," said Banviel reverently. "I've seen her in action, and my mum and dad respected her like Y'ffre—Bosmer god," she added, perhaps noticing Nurr's confusion. "I never could get religion and stuff, but they never minded. I'd find my faith or I wouldn't, and there was nothing they could do about it. I don't suppose you hold any gods?"

"No. Not really. I swear by them and express various levels of alarm or exasperation with them, but I don't worship them." Nurr curled his lip. "The gods died with the heroes, in my opinion. There's only one god now, and he's away wreaking havoc in the south—and I'd rather eat my tail than attend one of his preachings."

"We go to them every time we go dragonslaying," said Banviel, "and we desecrate his many altars by killing the bishops standing guard. And doesn't it feel good, reducing the monster's evil influence one dead dragon at a time."

Nurr grinned. "You're right; sermons do prove very enjoyable." He studied the still-sleeping form of Lotjoorkriid and wondered, "So, what shall be this one be about today?"

"As they always are," Banviel replied, "fire, death and a whole lot of nonsense about the World-Eater's supposed destiny to rule mortalkind. Still…" A trace of apprehension gleamed in her pale eyes. "…I've never killed, or had a hand in killing, a Red before."

"Neither have I," Nurr confessed, "but they'll be like any other dragon; tough bastards, but with a chink in their armour."

"Their eyes, right? It's always their eyes."

"I haven't always killed through their eyes. Bloods, for example, are one bloody pain. I've done it, with immense difficulty; in my early days I just killed them with an arrow in their heart. Very quick and extremely agile, but their skins are the softest of all the dragon types, and their hearts are smallest, too. Still, through the eye is my signature. Nowhere better into the soul than through the window." He smiled a little sadly. "So Gelwin used to say."

Banviel turned to him quickly, then lowered her eyes. "You knew him well."

"I knew you well, too," Nurr replied, fondly eyeing the Wood Elf. "You and I had to share your father between us."

"Oh, I was only a young girl," Banviel murmured. "I was old enough to understand when duty called, and training initiates into dragonslayers was the greatest and most important duty, alongside the deed of the dragon itself." She withdrew her sword, and Nurr's eyes were drawn to the sigils carved upon the sides of the sleek metal. One side's lettering, he knew, would spell _Knight Sister_ , just as one side of his sword had _Knight Brother_ upon it. The other side spelled the name of the sword itself.

"The Blading of the Blade," she whispered, "is like rebirth. So when asked to name it, that's what I called it. _Naga-na Anyammis_. Rebirth."

Nurr flicked one ear. "That's a mouthful."

Banviel quietly laughed. "It's Aldmeri, which my father knew fragments of. He was raised in Valenwood before he found his way north. But what about your sword, Nurr? What's its name?"

Nurr shrugged. "I knew I'd never use it, but every Blade has a sword to remember him by, so I got a nice shiny katana like everyone else." He thought of it, stored safely away at the bottom of his trunk. Though he'd trained to use it alongside the bow, that was where it stayed; nonetheless, he always made certain it was sharp. "So you have the runes on your sword etched in Aldmeri. Mine I had in Ta'agra. My knowledge of the language is poor at best, but I knew a few words, enough for a grandly symbolic name.

"I confess, I wasn't really impressed with the thought of a sword that would never taste dragon blood. I mulled over some stupid names like Biter and Slicer. I even wondered if I wanted to call it Sword. Lio persuaded me out of it, though. 'The blade of a Blade is more than his badge of office, it is what he will be remembered by,' he told me. So with that in mind, I named it _Fusozay_ —without regret. Because though you might believe I resented being in the Order, given my misleading attitude most take far too seriously, I discovered one day that I had no regret. There was no better place for me to be in this world."

Banviel's eyes glowed. "This is the closest I've ever heard you come of telling others of your past before the Order," she breathed. "I'm honoured."

Nurr turned away. "I'm no storyteller, especially in backstories."

"Lio mentioned you had a reputation of being a closed book."

"He's right. He's the closest I'll ever have to a brother, and even he doesn't know who I was before I joined." Nurr's fingers flexed. "And I think it best if it stays that way."

Banviel fell quiet.

A distant flash of steel caught Nurrkha'jay's quick eyes. He looked towards the end of the lair, and saw it again; a glimpse of Lio's blade. "They're ready," he whispered, instantly withdrawing from his nostalgia. _Time to dance with dragons._ He felt Banviel leave his side, one hand holding her sword Rebirth, the other shivering with a forming spear of ice.

Banviel raised the tip of her sword, and counted to three—Nurr could hear the numbers on her steady breath—then released, at the same instant Helena, wherever she was upon the ground, cast two more ice spikes. All three met the unsuspecting Lotjoorkriid, burrowing deep into his wing joint.

He woke with a howl of pain and fury.

Lio sprang into the open bellowing the rally: "For your Brothers! For your loved ones! For the true Dragon of the North!" Then the tip of his blade struck flesh, cleaving Lotjoorkriid's maw so fiercely the Red recoiled with another shriek.

Nurr watched the chaos begin to unfold with a wry smile. _He never had any idea. The arrogant stupidity of some dragons shall never cease to amaze me._

Lotjoorkriid drew back, neck arched and eyes blazing. Lio was joined by the others down there, and they filled out to guard the dragon at swordpoint against the back of his cave. "Lotjoorkriid," Lionus shouted, "justice shall be dealt for the crimes you've ensued against Skyrim and her people. Not another man shall die to your greed."

The dragon laughed. " _Joorre mey!_ Know not who I am? _Zu'u los Lotjoorkriid_ , and to your dirty tongue I am known as the Great Mortal Killer! I have rendered the flesh of thousands of your petty people. You have done nothing more than provide me now with another feast."

"You know not who we are, either," Lio answered. _Here comes the epitaph_ , thought Nurr, who always felt rather satisfied when he heard it said to the bewildered beasts. "We are the shadows in stone and the hidden crusade! We are the blades in the dark! Mortalkind knows its Dread, but before the end dragonkind shall have theirs!"

Lotjoorkriid did as all other dragons had done first upon hearing the poetic threat; laugh.

" _Wahlhi nid faas voth hin rotte sahlag_ ," he sneered. "Now pay for your insolence with your lives." He drew a long, rattling breath. " _YOL—_ "

The rest of the incantation was lost in a stream of dragonfire, but Helena—who possessed a remarkable gift for anticipating a dragon's Shout—had risen her ward in good time, protecting her fellow Blades from the inferno. The moment it passed, she dropped it, and Lio and Rogghart surged forward while she and Screema-Lei fell back to the positions they knew best.

 _Go for the wing,_ Nurr thought, and watched as Rogghart smoothly ducked beneath the dragon's jaws with agility not befitting his kindred, and thrust his blade clean through Lotjoorkriid's wing skin. The Red howled and swung around for the attack, forgetting Lio, who cleaved the scarlet scales at the base of his throat. Even as Lotjoorkriid's head snapped back around, jaws reaching for the Imperial's undefended back, Rogghart commenced what he liked to call 'slicing cheese'—when he ran beneath the half-raised wing while his sword carved a bloody line through the membranous flesh.

Lotjoorkriid screamed profanities and tore his wing free, sweeping it wildly in the hope of knocking Rogghart into the wall of his cave. The Blade dodged the brunt and was only clipped, but merely shrugged off the force like a bothersome fly and went charging back in for round two. Orsimer and their endurance always made Nurr shake his head in respect.

"Damn," said Banviel. "I really wish I had your eyes right now."

"You'll be fine without them," Nurr grinned.

"We'll see." She leaned over the cliff, lightning crackling in her palm, and released it in one long, fierce arc, striking the wound at Lotjoorkriid's throat that Lio had opened. The Red's howl was more of surprise than pain, though that was the intention; it gave time for Lio to vault over the confused dragon's back and onto his other side, where his katana cleaved a neat wound in a vulnerable hollow of the wing joint. Lotjoorkriid recovered and twisted his entire body around in the hopes of putting both Lio's and Rogghart's backs to the wall, but was foiled as Helena sent an ice storm his way. Sticky silver clung to the red scales, and Lotjoorkriid snarled in frustration, attention turned to the seemingly undefended Nord mage.

No words were shared between them; the Red opened his maw and snarled, " _FO KRAH DIIN!_ "

Helena's ward came up and she withstood the fierce frosty blast, but Nurr guessed the exhaustion about her as she retreated and realized Lotjoorkriid's affinity with his Thu'um was definitely more precise than most. _She shouldn't just blockade herself against his Voice attacks anymore. He'll exhaust her before she can launch some offensives of her own._

His fingers itched, and he clutched his bow harder. _Wait_ , Gelwin's all-instructive whisper reminded him. _Your patience will reward you. Your Blade Brothers will be fine. It's your unknown presence that will lead to victory._

He moved position, climbed to a new vantage point, watched the fight ensue from a new angle—and was just in time to see Screema-Lei spring out of hiding, to fall upon Lotjoorkriid's back as the Red twisted around to attack Rogghart. The Red recoiled in shock, but Screema was as slippery as a fish in combat; he skidded down from the bewildered dragon's back and onto the wounded wing, where he delivered another deep laceration in the skin from finger to finger.

Faster than even the Blades anticipated, Lotjoorkriid's head swung around, jaws only narrowly missing the swift Argonian as he tuck-and-rolled to safety. The dragon's anger was growing. Lio darted back into his line of sight, but Lotjoorkriid was learning too. He did not concentrate his attack upon him, but kept his eyes upon Screema as his uninjured wing lashed out, catching Lio hard in the stomach and flinging the Imperial across the lair's gold- and bone-littered floor.

Nurr winced. _That's got to hurt._

Lotjoorkriid now turned to Rogghart, preparing to drive his dai-katana through the joint of the wing. The limb was swept up as the dragon twisted, then flung down with fierce strength. Rogghart dived for shelter, but wasn't nearly as fast as Screema, and was thrown off his feet. He landed heavily, dazed for a moment, and the Red reared, one vast taloned claw reaching to crush him.

But help was never far. Helena flew a firestorm at Lotjoorkriid's head at the same instant Screema-Lei dived back into the fray in true Screema style. He sprang clean over Rogghart, front-rolled beneath the exposed belly, and drove his blade almost up to the hilt into the dragon's gut as the Red recoiled from Helena's fire attack.

How Lotjoorkriid roared.

Screema-Lei withdrew his katana and ducked to safety as the dragon came crashing down, hell-bent on murder. Rogghart managed to get to his feet and out of the way as Lotjoorkriid spun, his thick tail sweeping in a deadly arc, lunging for Helena. She flung flames into his gaping maw and embedded ice into the thick scales at his throat, slowing him enough for her to find shelter as again he unleashed an inferno. " _JOORRE!_ " he thundered. " _PAHLOKAAL NIKRIINNE! HOW YOU SHALL SUFFER!_ "

Rogghart, recovered, darted back in with a retort on his tongue; "You're the one suffering here!" And even as Lotjoorkriid prepared to attack, the Orc had completed his original intention; the dai-katana was embedded right to its hilt through the bony wing joint, immobilizing the wing itself.

"Get back!" Lio shouted, as the dragon stumbled with a grunt, suddenly burdened by his useless wing. Rogghart dragged his sword free, earning another shriek from his enemy, and hastened out of range of the snapping fangs.

 _Escape neutralized,_ Nurr thought, though this inspired only anger in Lotjoorkriid, no fear. The dragon couldn't fly, but he wasn't deprived of movement, as proven when he advanced, snarling curses. He saw Helena and lashed out, though the attack proved clumsy, allowing Helena to dart to safety, sending a shower of ice spikes in her wake.

But Nurr discovered Lotjoorkriid's cunning was not to be underestimated. _He's separated her from the others._ He faced Rogghart and Lio, who were vulnerable to whatever Thu'um the dragon was about to unleash. Neither knew how to cast a ward strong enough to resist the Voice. Neither knew how to cast a ward at all.

"Time to make myself known," Nurr heard Banviel say, an instant before she unleashed a rain of lightning. The shock of the bolts caught Lotjoorkriid on the back of his head. With a startled grunt, he whipped around, eyes searching the arching cliffs above his invaded lair. He only caught a flicker of shadow as Banviel lithely sprang from one cliff ledge to another.

The distraction was enough for Screema-Lei to get in close, barking an order, and for Helena, gathering her strength, to unleash it in a tide of telekinetic energy; the gold upon the floor rose up in a dizzying, glittering shower, impairing Lotjoorkriid's vision long enough for Lio and Rogghart to escape his attention and to find new places of attack in the lair—and for Screema to again hurry unnoticed beneath the dragon and slip his katana between the plate-like scales upon his chest. He ducked away before Lotjoorkriid shook the last few coins out of his eyes, his newly-open wound still vulnerable to Helena's fierce shock attack. The fingers of lightning found their way beneath the scales, through the wound and struck home to the flesh beneath, and Lotjoorkriid reared with a breathless bellow of pain.

But Nurr was doubtful. _Winding might work on the weaker dragon types—but for Reds, I doubt it will impair him for long._

It didn't, and even Helena didn't anticipate it. Lotjoorkriid's eyes snapped open, a sneer lit his lips, and his good wing flared, scraping up a shower of coins to blind her much in the same way as she'd done to him not twenty seconds ago. She staggered, unprepared for the attack that followed—and which would have torn her in two, if not for Banviel. Again the Bosmer sent a shower of sparks over Lotjoorkriid, and when that served only to make him flinch and close his eyes, one well-placed ice spike between his primary horns was enough to turn him with a frustrated snarl.

Nurr grinned. _Atta girl, Banvi._

He was almost ready. Since the beginning of the struggle his attention had been locked on Lotjoorkriid's ugly crimson head, following its every moment as he familiarized himself with how sharply it twisted and turned in answer to offending attacks. Now he'd found a bead, and in his trained mind it was being set in stone; one hand reached for the fletching of an arrow. One well-placed shot was all it took to end even a dragon's life. A little longer before he was certain he wouldn't miss…

…and Banviel, her father's daughter, was providing him with that time. She skipped above the enraged Red's head, allowing mere glimpses of herself to be seen by the frustrated dragon. But all good things had to come to an end.

Again Lotjoorkriid saw Banviel leaping above him—but a focused gleam now burned in his eyes.

"No!" cried Helena, but Lotjoorkriid was undeterred by her cry as he drew breath and bellowed, " _FUS RO DAH!_ "

Blue energy surged between the parted jaws and smashed into the ceiling, just as Banviel landed. Vibrations seared through the rock—even Nurr, on the other side of the lair, felt the shock of it—and it crumbled and cracked from the strain, collapsing in response to the Shout. Boulders rained into the lair, crashing in showers of bones and gold—Lio and Rogghart, standing beneath that cliff, were nearly crushed in the rockfall—while Banviel struggled for steady ground, and shrieked in alarm when the strained ledge finally gave way beneath her weight.

For one heart-stopping moment she plummeted; then her hands found a hold and she clung. Her blade spun down into the lair and fell forgotten among the disturbed treasures.

Nurr's bow was knocked and drawn in a heartbeat, but the dragon's head was turned away, the horns impeding the path of his arrow. _Twin moons,_ he cursed, _turn around!_

" _Joor mey_ ," Lotjoorkriid jeered, rearing up to study the suspended Bosmer more closely. "Look at you now. I should have known there'd be more of you to sate my craving of mortal blood."

Helena threw fire and ice at the wounds on his wing, and Lotjoorkriid twisted around with a snarl. He drew a rattling breath, and her first response was to fling up a ward—but the dragon was ever learning. No Thu'um came, but a bite, powerful enough to shatter Helena's ward, intended for an elemental attack, and send her staggering. Lotjoorkriid's tail swept around and struck her hard, throwing her off her feet and across the lair, where she fell and lay still.

 _Screema,_ Nurr thought with growing urgency, _Lio, Rogghart—come on, where are you?_

It was useless; no mark on the dragon's head, and there was no point in further distraction. Lotjoorkriid would ignore it, use his opportunity to kill Banviel than go after a hale enemy. He put the arrow between his teeth and scrambled lower down the cliffs in the hopes of a new vantage point, one where he could see its wicked eyes and put an arrow through one.

One of Banviel's hands slipped; she dangled precariously, swinging over a certain fall to doom.

Lotjoorkriid laughed. "You will fear me, _mal fahliil_."

She looked down at the dragon, and her face twisted not in terror, but fury. " _Abagaianye ni!_ " she cried, and lightning fell from her fingers and down his open throat. Lotjoorkriid screeched and recoiled, and in that instant Screema-Lei and Lio appeared through the rising dust. The Argonian mounted the flailing beast once more while Lio dived under. In unison their blades drove into the flesh of the dragon's throat, which arched in agony.

And the eyes, stretched wide with pain, were fully exposed.

 _An opportunity._ Nurr's arrow returned to the bowstring. No time to stop, barely any time to think; but he knew his mark, and now it was there, as easy as shooting a bullseye in an unmoving target back home. The twine brushed past his cheek, and then the arrow was loosed.

 _It only takes one._

Nurr didn't see the arrow's flight or where it landed, but in the bloodcurdling scream that followed, there was no need to. He came to the edge of the cliff and found Lotjoorkriid thrashing; Lio tore his blade free and dived for cover while Screema grimly clung onto the hilt of his and one of the dragon's spines, riding him as the Red thrashed in his final throes, howling—in disbelief? In terror realized at last? At last he could stand no longer, and sprawled upon the floor of his lair, never to move again.

But it was not yet over.

The force of Lotjoorkriid's final struggle and collapse had weakened Banviel's grip, to the extent when she could no longer find it again.

Nurr's eyes widened in dismay as she plummeted like a stone.

And from nowhere Rogghart appeared, and it was his great strength that saved her; he broke her murderous descent and caught her in his arms. Bewildered she wasn't dead, and still very much alive, she looked up into the less-than-holy eyes of her saviour.

"Banviel, don't deny it, you were bound to fall for me sometime," he grinned.

Nurr almost laughed.

 **d|b**


	18. XVII - The Greenwood

_The forests of Falkreath has long since been renamed the greenwood, for though the dragons burned it in the purge, the green grew back within a few short years...violently. Now it is a place where ill omens fester freely in the shadow of resentment. The trees are believed to echo with traces of Earth Magic, the volatile branch of soul resonance, and those that survived the fires now raise children similarly-minded with their anger. It is said t_ _he wild beasts that dwell within the woods are stranger than those beyond it. All claim that folk from the greenwood are queer._

 _Whether it is from these dark rumours or that the dense forest is ill suited for them, most dragons but the Bloods, the most beast-like of their brethren, prefer to nest elsewhere._

 **d|b**

 **-Ross-**

Beneath the arching boughs of pines and firs, it was the sound of birdsong which greeted Ross, than that of the dragons' haunting cries. It brought a smile to his face, and some of the tension even left his horse as they passed deeper into the trees, hooves clopping lightly on the twisting overgrown path. It was a road that had survived back from its days of use in the Fourth Era, when once it had passed among the trees along the river to a modest little village a few miles from what once had been Whiterun.

He passed where once it had stood, and paused to look across the river at its ruins. It was almost completely devoured by greenery, and only a few charred beams shrouded in ivy remained of the settlement whose name Ross had quite forgotten. He only knew of the phantoms of towns and their people as he rode past them. Not a single one of them had escaped the purge. _Only Markarth, cave of cravens,_ he thought, urging his steed on.

Here the road changed; it had wound through that village in old days, but the trees at the foot of the mountains had been cleared away and a new, larger road of silver stone had been placed. Unprotected beneath the trees, and in the fair daylight, Ross felt exposed. One hand lowered to his hip and rested upon his crossbow, a constant reminder to himself that should he be attacked, he was far from defenseless. His mount was rarely taken by surprise; not once had it made a journey in carelessness, and every movement it made was checked with caution. Such were the natures of horses that spent a lifetime of travel in the Fifth Era.

It had been only a few months since last he'd visited the greenwood—the name could refer either to the dense forest that dominated all of Skyrim's southhold, _Stumgevild_ , or to its sole city within its borders, _Gosvahgraag_ , which apparently when translated meant _greenwood_ itself—but Ross still felt the forest had changed in his short absence from it. In the Fourth Era there was a city in the heart of this hold, and how it had lit a bonfire as the dragons razed it and a quarter mile of the woodland surrounding. When mortals rebuilt, the inner territory had been claimed by feral dragons prepared to die in defense of their fruitful patches, so the new settlement was erected on the fringe of the hold.

But Ross was not to see it today. The afternoon light was fading by the time he came to any kind of civilization, and that was _Gosvahgraag_ 's closest neighbouring village, _Krosonjoor_ , built at the foot of the small mountain range that held the infamous ruins of Bleak Falls Barrow. Most looked startled at his presence, and he came to conclude that they hadn't had a freerider pass by their humble town in some time, or it hadn't been too long since another left. The children stared as he trotted by, and adults approached, beseeching him of news from around the province.

The questions were common enough, so Ross shared with them all he knew of his wanderings; the wolves in the westhold were growing restless, attacking the settlements there as dragons burned their forests; the Raiders were gaining fame and power in the east; and, sadly, he shared the news of the _vaxnilz_ that had taken place in Whiterun the previous morning, much to the dismay of many.

"These Raiders are the only men in this accursed land that have rediscovered the nerve to fight back," one aged farmer said. "I've heard news of these rebels before; the young cub Kaarn's the face of this rebellion, but it was old Ulfric who was the mind." He shook his head despondently. "They've no hope without him. The dragons will crush them all, just like they did everyone else who ever fought back."

Ross hesitated on an answer. _A freerider takes no sides,_ he thought yet again. "I was present at the _vaxnilz_ ," he said. "I heard the last words of Stormbear, as did all the people of _Ahgelingrah_. He met his death without fear, confident that the Raiders would only draw righteous anger from this."

The old farmer gave a mirthless chuckle. "They always say that, boy. _Avenge me! My time is over, now win the war and honour my memory!_ And for a while that just might be the spirit, but a war's nothing without a tactician and a knowing mind aware of what a rebellion just might cost. Such a pity they found that mind. You ought to know as well as any other man here, freerider; the time for heroes is well over."

"I don't know about that, da," a young boy put in. Ross hadn't even noticed him before until now; children could be marvelously inconspicuous like that. "The Raiders are dragon-fighters. They sound like heroes to me."

The old man snorted. "Don't get your hopes up, child. The dragons killed all the defiant heroes long ago, and corrupted the rest with a darker glory."

"But maybe it's a message from the gods. Maybe the Raiders will save us."

"Hah! Talk like that will leave you minus yer tongue, lad. Have you forgotten the great purge that birthed the Fifth Era? The noble Companions of Whiterun, the Stormcloaks of the east, Merigard of Hammerfell and High Rock, even the Forsworn of the Reach and the Aldmeri Dominion, the elven cause that had given such grief to Tamriel; and the Empire itself—all were a part of that purge, and all were turned to dust. But of all these things, much sorrow is to be had in the Night of Silence—and to that bitter loss, we owe only the Dragonborn, Ysmir the Unworthy."

Ross knew well the story of the Night of Silence—at sunset, the Dragonborn ascended the Throat a hero, but when dawn came, he descended a tyrant and traitor. It was during that night the monk order of Greybeards was destroyed by the hand of the Dread. The old men on the mountain, who had trained the Dragonborn in the way of the Voice and blessed him Ysmir come again, were heartlessly butchered in their monastery. _And they were only the first of millions to fall._

"Are you for hire, sir?" a woman asked.

"Currently I away to the greenwood to deliver a gift," Ross answered. _Tallas,_ he remembered, was the name of his client. "But what did you need from me?"

So another transaction went; the woman, the wife of another farmer in the little town, had a niece all the way in Riverhome—at most a week's ride northeast from the greenwood—who'd recently been taken ill. The woman's brother, the father of the sickly girl, couldn't afford medicine and through the delivery made by another freerider some weeks ago, had asked his sister in _Krosonjoor_ for money to afford a healer. The parcel she pressed into Ross's hands was gold and a response to him.

"Bless you, sir, if you could get this to him safely," she said.

Ross smiled and tucked the parcel under his arm. "On my honour as a messenger, I will endeavour to see this package reach its destination," he told her. "And please, call me Jon."

"You're welcome to stay at our home this evening," she added. "The woods are more dangerous at night than in the day."

She had a point; Ross never could trust riding through the forest in the pitch of night. Everywhere else was more open, but the forest was enclosed and treacherous. "It's quite all right," he told her. "I will pay for my board and wine in the town inn." Then he thanked her and took his leave, relishing the thought of a bed after the long day riding.

The woman's package, he did not trust to leave in his saddle—thieves were everywhere—so he kept it with him that night, and by positioning himself on top of it while he slept, he woke to it still there in the morning. He bought some supplies from the innkeeper to last the day ahead—a half-day's gallop from _Krosonjoor_ to _Gosvahgraag_ , he was told—and carefully placed the woman's parcel in a particularly secure compartment of his saddle. Only then did he turn the head of his mount and ride from the village, prepared to last the day ahead.

As the road wound deeper into the greenwood, Ross rocking gently in the saddle in time to the stride of his horse, he began to notice signs of dragon activity. _They're breeding, and fast,_ he thought, as the path led him around trees broken jaggedly in two, others charred to nightblack lumps and smoke-silver cinders. The road wound him over a forest river, its waters tainted sickly red by some dead animal far upstream. When he stopped a few hours later beside a small grotto to eat and water his mount, he discovered the yellowed remains of skeletons decaying in a patch of rushes only a few paces from where he'd sat to eat.

The birds sang with disconcerting cheeriness, but Ross could not ignore the malevolent presence of dragons in the thicker wood. _Almost like they're daring me to wander off the path,_ he thought, and galloped the rest of the way to _Gosvahgraag_ with his crossbow loaded and resting on the saddlehorn. Shafts of clear latesummer sun pierced the thick green branches, but the sky itself was difficult to see; the trees grew almost angrily, their boughs twisted and gnarled as they fought against each other for dominance of the light. Bulbous roots as thick as a man's arm snaked across the road, and there grew an evil feel in the air that reeked of wicked things.

It was only past noon when at last he came into brighter woodland, and saw the settlement of the greenwood in the distance, but Ross hailed it gratefully. It had definitely been some time since last he'd been in the southhold, given how much the trees had changed. _A year or a few months, maybe, but even the creations of Kynareth have changed, and not for the better._ He cantered the rest of the way to _Gosvahgraag_ , and both he and his steed were grateful.

The town itself was quite pleasant, and unlike the forest, it had hardly changed to Ross's last memory of the place. Neat cottages of wood and stone, joined to one another in loosely-cobbled streets, blanketed a hill cleared of the large old trees so visibility of the other houses were plain—a requirement of the new settlements, so dragons had an easier time finding somewhere to land when they came. The longhouse sat on the pinnacle of the hill surrounded in green; no doubt the abode of the warden of the south.

Quite in contrary to how he'd been met in _Krosonjoor_ , the townsfolk of the greenwood met his sudden presence with surprise than unexpected delight. When Ross dismounted and engaged in discussion with a stablehand, he shortly discovered why. "It's only been three days since there was a freerider in the city," the straw-haired boy announced excitedly as he helped rub the sweaty horse down. "He said his name was Mark. Do you know him?"

Ross smiled, recalling his kinsman's shaggy-haired face. "Mark—yes, I know him. Was he well?"

"Aye, sir. Just came to deliver a package to the warden, and he was away again. Like a ghost, he was, in and out—only the whole town got a snatch of a sight before he rode into the woods again. You and he must be good friends."

"Good enough, I suppose. Rarely do we meet each other; too often our roads drift apart. Skyrim is a vast land, after all." He saw the wondrous look in the stableboy's eyes and sighed. _He wishes to be like me, free and unburdened with the troubles of the world—but if he's good around horses, and has a keen sense, he just might survive a journey in the saddle._ "If you'd like to entertain me some more, lad, you could direct me to where I might find a man named Tallas. I have a delivery for him."

The town was only made up of a body of about two hundred souls, so everyone knew everyone. It didn't take Ross long before he located his unknowing client, hard at work at the lumber mill. The young man spotted him quickly, and when Ross gestured to him, he came swiftly, guarded excitement present on his weathered face.

"Freerider, right?" he checked. "You have something for me?"

"From your father." Ross produced his delivery. "He wishes you and your new wife a long and happy life together."

Tallas's face lit up with joy. "Talos guide you, sir," he beamed, taking the parcel gratefully. "He's well, I hope? His leg isn't playing up again?"

"Aye, well to my eyes. He seems comfortable enough where he is."

"I must visit him sometime, let my Lanna see her father-in-law. I promised her I'd show her the big city one day, too. She's always dreamed of going to Whiterun. You were just there, if my father hired you—what's the news?"

Ross, who was starting to hate reliving his memories of the capital of the midlands, obliged the young man and told him of the _vaxnilz_ of the Raider Ulfric Stormbear. The reaction he gained from his listener was not quite what he expected; Tallas actually sank back against the lumber mill, totally dismayed at the revelation.

"My gods," he breathed. "It really is true?"

"I was unfortunate enough to see it with my own eyes," Ross replied. "You support the Raiders' cause, then?"

"Support?" Tallas gave a nervous laugh. "If not for dear Lanna and my pa, I would have joined them the instant I first caught wind of rebellion in the east! They fight in the name of the old gods and for what was lost when the Dread rose to power with the monstrous World-Eater. They are heroes come again, when we thought them all dead or mad to power!"

Ross shook his head, starkly reminded of the aged farmer's opinion in _Krosonjoor_. _It's funny how the world turns, isn't it?_ "You speak boldly of your support," he pointed out, intrigued at Tallas's fearlessness to voice his thoughts aloud. "Do you not fear sympathizers of the dragon cause will overhear you?"

The lumberjack's smile broadened. "We have a saying down here in the greenwood," he said. "'The life of a man is but one beating of a tree's heart.' Some strangers puzzle over its meaning—but it's really quite simple. It matters not what we say with the woods around us, for soon (to them) we are gone from this world, and to the listening boughs we speak freely. You cannot lie to the forest. If your intentions are unsaid, they are felt."

Ross nodded, thinking the folk of the greenwood were just as changed as the greenwood itself. "There are dragonmen in the town, though?"

"Of course—but there are those who know the saying and those who don't, and everyone knows everyone," Tallas answered. "Even the children know when and when not to speak easily. The mill is one such place—and speaking of it, it's best I return to work. Thank you for the gift. Lanna and I will make great use of it."

Ross took his leave and was on his way back to the stables, judging whether or not it was practical to head back along the road to _Krosonjoor_ , when he was intercepted by two of the warden's guard, who called for him to stop. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, wondering if the young lumberjack had perhaps spoken too freely after all.

"You're to come with us, freerider," one guardsman answered. "The warden wishes words with you."

"For a matter regarding…?"

"It is best if the warden himself tells you that."

Ross shrugged, though he'd had no experience of the warden of the south before. _So there's no telling what he'll be like—all I know of him is that like every other warden in the province, he supports the dragon cause._ "Lead on, then," he said. _Even they need messages run now and again, and there's no-one better than a freerider to get a message sent._

He followed the guards through the rising streets of the town, curious eyes following him in his wake, until for a moment Ross stood before the longhouse itself. It was shrouded in long, twisted strands of ivy and jasmine, the boughs of an old fir falling steeply over its slanted roof. When he stepped into the home of the warden it was remarkably cool and fresh. The hall was tall and dark, the main thoroughfare to the warden's throne swept and lined with little braziers.

The warden himself was a man who Ross did not quite expect. Brown of hair and blue of eye, he was large even for a Nord, draped in bear furs. His hair was very long and fell like a mane around his shoulders, and beneath his developing beard the Imperial freerider caught sight of old, ragged scars climbing up the grizzled cheek, and clipping a chunk of the nose. A carved bronze circlet, the symbol of his office, perched just above his heavy brow.

"M'lord, the freerider you sent for," the guards declared.

"Very good," the warden answered, and gestured with his hand. "Away with you, now."

The guards turned and left. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross watched them leave. Then he turned to his summoner and inquired, "What would you have of me?"

"A moment for formalities," the warden answered. "I am Halling Greensmile, warden of this place. To the people, I am Greensmile. To you, I am Halling."

Ross ducked his head. "You may call me Ronus."

"I may not know you at all," Halling Greensmile replied. "Don't think I haven't heard of you, freerider of many faces. You keep your true name safe, and use a thousand to describe yourself. Clever, I grant. It is such a freerider I have need of."

At once, Ross regarded the warden differently than he had of others. _As strange and mysterious as the greenwood itself._ "Again, I ask, what is it you need of me?"

"What any man needs of a freerider," Halling answered, heaving himself to his feet. "I have a message that needs delivering, and one that cannot fall into the wrong hands. Come with me, now." He led Ross to the side of the hall and into a small secluded room. A map of Skyrim was sprawled across a table, tacked in places, while bookshelves were crammed into every corner, jammed with records, scrolls and ledgers. Ross went inside first, and the Greensmile followed, and set a guard outside the door as he closed it.

"A precaution, my lord?" Ross observed.

"Oh, yes," the warden answered grimly, "and drop the title, freerider. What I ask of you betrays my duty to the dragons."

Ross stared. _This is not what I expected at all._ "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that the lifespan of a man is but a beating of a tree's heart." Halling chuckled. "Once I was certain of my place in the world, and so was my heart. Now they are elsewhere. The greenwood was not my place of birth, but one I was assigned to guard over when my days as a soldier to the dragon cause were done. Now it is more than my responsibility. It is a home to me, and one I have come to respect, for all its perils and shadows." He bent down and withdrew something from beneath the table, a long folded piece of parchment carefully sealed.

This he handed to Ross. "Men change," Halling smiled, "or perhaps I never did. I feared and hated the beasts in the sky as a boy. As an older man, I've only lost my fear."

 _It seems impossible even to anticipate a warden's true loyalties,_ Ross thought in bewilderment. He took the parchment between his fingers. "The dragons do not know of this, I take it."

"Not at all," said Halling. "In fact, all this has taken great preparation. Everyone knows everyone in the greenwood, so dragonman is known easily from slave. I know which of my guards I can trust, and which of the guards I must deceive. I know the thoughts of every one of my people. Nothing is spoken, but everything is heard, as is the nature of trees in their quintessence. Even men can become like them, and the greenwood's spirit grows stronger with every beating of our swift hearts."

There was something uncanny about the Greensmile, and one Ross did not like. "Who is this message for?"

"For the man who first resurrected the idea of what Skyrim must be. Free."

"You intend this message for Kaarn Stormbear."

"That I do. He does not expect it, nor does he anticipate any kind of communication from me. But I intend for him to have it. It may just change things for him, and of change I have become its warden, it seems." Halling rested a broad hand upon Ross's shoulder. "Much is relied upon. I know of your skill and your successes. Not once have you failed a client. Uphold that legacy now and do not fail me. To where you and I stand now, it has taken many months of careful preparation, and the use of much of my resources to track your progress and send you here."

A suspicion formed in Ross's mind. "The stablemaster, he is a part of this treachery?"

"Treachery is such a strong word. Resistance, freerider, and change; this is what it is. It is time for such a change. I can smell it in the air. Many underestimate Kaarn, and that is good. It means when they learn, they will respect him, and slowly their fearful loyalty to the dragons will wane."

"Learn what?"

Halling smiled. "That even the smallest cub will grow, and the youngest bear will kill. One day, even the dragons will realize both."

Greensmile paused for some time before he spoke again. "Change _is_ coming to this land, freerider. I can feel it in my bones, and hear it in the whispers of the wind. In small ways and great, in days or months, soon nothing we know will be the same. Those who seek to destroy change fail to understand without it the world will never move again—and change is coming, in one man or one beast, in tens, in hundreds, in thousands. If it begins in me, or if it has already begun, I wish to be a part."

He stepped back. "Take the message. Ride swift and well. Proceed straight to the east; the woman's package from _Krosonjoor_ will be taken care of." He sensed Ross's surprise and alarm, and said, "You will find me a hard man to fool or to surprise, freerider. My eyes are everywhere, and they are not the kind you expect or even tend to notice. You and I both know that anonymity is key to survival. As such, even the dragons do not know. I can see them coming from miles away."

Ross reached for the door, then realized, "I have no payment for my services."

"Payment will be given when the message has been sent," Halling answered. "I will know when it has."

"I fear you know too much, my lord."

"Of too many things—but I do not know who you really are, freerider, and that is good. Do not break the spell of secrecy for any man's sake. Not even for Ysgramor's Heir."

 **d|b**


	19. XVIII - The White Sun

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

It didn't take long for the other bandits to close in. At once the wolf turned with fangs bared, a gleam in his shadowed eyes that spoke a warning the two-legged could not understand.

Chase raised her voice. "In the Mother's name, stand down, all of you! _Shirju-az'raghal_ is not here to kill!"

Amos slowly rose to his feet and nodded. "Do as she says."

Unfazed, the alpha wolf raised his head proudly and turned to Chase. " _I do not seek you out idly,_ " he growled in the tongue of his kin. " _We must speak, at once._ "

" _About what?_ " Chase returned. " _You are bold to enter a lair of men, my alpha._ "

" _A statement,_ " he answered, " _of why I am here. We no longer fear men._ " He gave a sweeping glare over his shoulder, lips curling in distaste at the weapons the uncertain bandits clutched to their chests. " _Order them to put those burdens away,_ " he growled. " _They weary me._ "

"What in Oblivion is going on?" Amos demanded.

Chase glanced between the two males, then turned impatiently to the Redguard, climbing to his feet. "He wants my ear and my time."

"So he comes tearing through the camp itself to speak with you?" Amos exclaimed. He gestured sharply to the barricades. "Get out of here, the both of you, before Gramu—"

"Too late."

Chase turned quickly, hackles rising instinctively; the bandit chieftain now made himself present, shoving his way through the hastily formed circle of bandits to fall beneath the piercing stare of the wolves. He was clad head to foot in his silver armour, both hands on his hips, eyes narrowed in scrutiny; the alpha of the pack White Sun raised his head and looked him dead in the eye, as an equal.

"Stay out of this, Gramu," Chase warned, coming to stand between them. "He is not here for you."

"But you, if what I heard before was true," Gramu answered, now turning his gaze to her. "Your pack alpha, from the days when you ran wild and savage."

"I remain both," Chase answered, "only I've found some more use for this human skin." Bitterness sounded sharply in her voice. Emboldened by the presence of her alpha, she turned her back to Gramu and her attention upon the wolf. "Az'raghal shirju _, we should speak elsewhere. Men fear our kind and will not lay down their arms in our presence._ "

Anger blazed in her alpha's eyes, and it was so great that Chase winced and dropped her gaze. " _You have grown soft in your absence of our brothers and sisters,_ shay'k-sh'aghar _, if you so willingly obey the will of these simple two-feet. We walk where we please, and no man may tell us otherwise._ "

The fierceness in his snarl brought back memories of her time with the pack, when she had indeed been the hunter among hunters, when she had argued against every word spoken to her. Her spirit had been admired, and it took his chide for her to realize that her time with men had changed her, and not for the better. " _Yes,_ az'raghal _,_ " she answered. " _It was for concern of your safety that led me to suggest._ "

" _Fear not for me,_ aji _, but for these men about you. Should one attempt to strike, his death will be quick._ "

"Chase," said Gramu sharply. "You and the beast will continue this outside."

At once Chase's eyes snapped to him, and fury rose in her heart. "You will not call him that again," she warned. "And we will speak where we please. That right belongs to me, and you will not interfere."

Footsteps crunched over the gravel behind her. "You forget your place, dog," Estilde snarled. Chase's ears pricked at the rasp of her greatsword withdrawn.

She didn't turn. She heard the pad of paws, a single shriek, and the _thud_ as the sword fell to the dirt with a clattering of steel. Her alpha would make no sound, but the message was very clear, and etched in pain and blood.

Gramu, who still held her gaze, finally gave a single nod. "Then you will be fast, and the wolf will be gone long before the moons make their peak in the sky."

Chase narrowed her eyes. "We will be as long as we need to be."

"You have until then." The Warglutton stepped back. "All of you, leave the wolves to their meeting. And someone tend to Estilde. I won't have her lose a hand to this."

A faint smile pulled at Chase's lips. She glanced at the Nord woman, her bloodied wrist pressed hard against her chest, staring in a mixture of anger and terror upon the alpha. _No doubt she will have second thoughts the next time she names me dog,_ Chase thought, as Amos put a hand around her shoulder and, with a final cautious glance at the wolf, led her away with the others.

Soon they were alone beside the fire and what was left of the goat. Chase sank slowly to her knees. " _Forgive me,_ az'raghal _,_ " she murmured. " _I indeed have forgotten the spirit of the wolf of me. It has been too long._ "

" _You are forgiven,_ shay'k-sh'aghar _._ " Shirju seated himself, and his tone turned kindly. " _Living among men has done this to you._ "

" _I will not forget again,_ " Chase vowed. _I have hunted like the wolf, but long have I abandoned behaving like one._

Her alpha nodded once. " _I understand your confusion,_ aji _,_ " he began. " _Never have I willingly ventured so far alone into this realm of men—but you have made your bloody stand on the fringe of the west and the golden heart of this land. You have done little to involve yourself in a human life. These creatures are little more than beasts._ "

" _It was why I was drawn to them,_ az'raghal _. I cannot live a human life and honour my goddess mother._ "

" _It was why I sent you away. You must find harmony between your two halves. Only then will you be made the stronger._ "

Chase shook her head, once more feeling as rebellious and angry as she'd been upon first hearing her alpha's verdict. " _I cannot. I cannot. To live among humans would mean to sacrifice my freedom and to live a fearful life. They do not accept the wolf and will kill me if they learned of what they call an affliction. It is my nature to fear the walls and the cage, and that is all mankind can offer me._ "

Shirju looked around. " _I see walls_ ," he rumbled, " _and these creatures have cast a cage about you._ "

Chase clenched a fist. " _I am fed and granted the liberty of the wilderness. This is but a bridge between the two worlds you have asked me to live._ "

" _No._ " Anger returned, sharp in her alpha's growl. " _You are fed like a dog and treated as such. Your liberty is restrained. You are but a dog on a leash. The large one who spoke, the one you named_ Gramu _, he is more than your leader. He is your master._ "

" _Never!_ " Chase exclaimed. The indignity of such a suggestion! " _Never,_ az'raghal _! They fear me as the wolf, they take care in my presence!_ "

" _And they challenge you,_ " he snarled. " _The few who look upon you in disdain represent the strongest of this pack of two-feet savages. It will not take long, if it is not the case already, before the weaker individuals follow the lead of those strongest. You will sink lower and you will not even realize it. You are no woman wolf but a dog on a leash._ "

Chase opened her mouth to argue back, but found no words to answer—for every word that her alpha had uttered was true.

" _Before you may return home,_ " said Shirju, " _you must prove yourself a wolf once more—not to me, not to your brothers, but to these two-feet savages. No more will you obey them. Wolves obey only those stronger than they. Are they stronger than you,_ aji _?_ "

Chase pressed her fists into the earth. " _No,_ az'raghal _._ "

" _Then remind them of that._ "

The white wolf drew a thoughtful breath, then said, " _I did not come this way to remind you of what you already know,_ shay'k-sh'aghar. _Our pack angers. The_ krag-nalihr _seek to amuse themselves with the destruction of our hunting grounds and the slaughter of our people._ "

Chase bristled. _My goddess mother spoke true._ Lupa had said her pack was growing angry and fierce as dragons invaded more and more of their territory, burning to watch the trees burn, and killing just to kill. _They have lost sight of what it means to hunt, and now exist only to shame the Huntsman's name, and shroud his and Lupa's influence over wolven souls. In their anger, they are capable of doing the unthinkable—and I dread now, my mother, for you have sent my alpha as a harbinger to these evil omens._

" _How many have died?_ " she dared to ask.

Shirju flattened his ears. " _Too many. Your milk brothers live still, fear not, as do many of our pack who trained you in the hunt. But many more have been lost. Our eldest are gone, including the she-wolf who raised you, and our storyteller. The veins of the mountains are clouded with ash, and the grotto of ceremony is turned to dust._ "

Chase's eyes widened. " _Their desecration knows no bounds!_ "

" _It was the grotto's destruction that kindled the rage of our pack,_ " said her alpha, " _and there was little to be done to dissuade them. Now I lead them in this charge of vengeance, but it is doomed to end in death and destruction for us. We are no match for the_ krag-nalihr _and their numbers and fire. We know this, and we fight still. Raiding the villages of the mountains, devouring men and their families, has done nothing but make us angrier._ "

"Az'raghal _, that is not the way to weaken the_ krag-nalihr _,_ " said Chase carefully. " _They care little for their mortal slaves. They devour them themselves, when they are hungry and cannot be bothered to hunt. You must kill_ krag-nalihr _to weaken them._ "

" _I feared as such,_ " Shirju confessed, " _but we cannot kill_ krag-nalihr _. They are winged and we run over the face of the earth. Fire leaps from their maws and our fangs cannot match theirs._ "

" _But we understand brotherhood like no other creature in this world,_ " Chase argued. " _Not even the_ krag-nalihr _comprehend its meaning like we do. We find strength in number and in companionship, and through this we may succeed against even the_ krag-nalihr _._ " She drew herself upright until she looked as an equal into her alpha's eyes. " _If the White Sun cannot face the_ krag-nalihr _alone, then let us not face them alone. Rally the rest. Call a gathering of the eight great packs of this troubled world, and let us unite to stand against the wolves' bane!_ "

The white wolf bowed his head. " _The thought, I confess, has crossed my mind,_ shay'k-sh'aghar _. But it will take much to persuade them to fight. We are not meant for war._ "

 _And this is what Lupa warned me of,_ Chase realized, _and why she distresses._ But it seemed that there was now little choice. For a century and more, the dragons had ruled the world, burning and slaughtering at will. The wolves had subsided into shadow and secrecy, but phantoms of their former selves. _Like what my alpha has done to me,_ she thought, _they must be reminded of the spirit in us._

" _Call them_ ," she insisted. " _You are_ raghal _of the White Sun. They will hear you._ "

Shirju gave a shallow laugh.

" _Your spirit returns,_ shay'k-sh'aghar _,_ " he rumbled, " _but never were you the most logical of us. A gathering is impossible. To accomplish what you intend would take a new alpha whose strength exceeds that of every other present. I am past my prime and feel my twilight closing in._ " He looked at Chase thoughtfully. " _You are unprecedented,_ " he said. " _Pureborn wolf in human skin. You are savage and strong in the ways of the hunt. You would make a fine_ raghal _in the wars undoubtedly to come for our kind. But while the White Sun will accept you, the others packs will see you as an abomination and treat this gathering as such. It is impossible._ "

Chase lowered her eyes. " _But something must be done, or all our kin will perish._ "

" _Indeed. Some_ thing _, not some_ one _, must unite the packs, and I fear that only you, the hunter of hunters, are capable of discovering this—the answer may not lie in the world of wolves but in that of men. And this is why I have come to you._ "

Shirju rested his jaw over Chase's brow, then drew away, a wolven benediction that praised honour and loyalty. She was honoured beyond words and humbly bowed low.

" _What is it they call you here?_ " her alpha asked.

She found her human name and its translation into the tongue of her pack. "Rassak."

" _Chase_ ," he said. " _It is fitting, but unworthy. You do more than that. I feel the presence of our goddess mother. She has come to you, and you have earned your favour. Is this true?_ " When she nodded, Shirju looked approving. " _She only approaches the worthiest of us. You are the spirit of wolf,_ shay'k-sh'aghar. _Remember that, enforce that among these petty two-feet savages._ _Remind them that wolves are never tamed._ "

He rose swiftly to his paws and Chase stood with him. For a moment, alpha and hunter looked at the other.

But there was one last warning Shirju wished to share.

" _I would beware_ Gramu _,_ " he growled. " _He is a perceptive one. I can smell the stink of the fear he believes so well-hidden beneath his silver defense—the metal that is your bane. He seeks to restrain your potential for fear one day your strength will exceed his._ "

Chase curled her lip. " _It exceeded his long ago._ "

" _Have a care,_ aji _,_ " the alpha warned. " _The woman may listen to him—but the wolf must not._ "

Then his eyes turned to a wall of stone and wood, one barricade dividing camp from wilderness. He cleared it in a single bound, and the last glimpse Chase had of him was his silver fur washed pale by the twin moons, now nearing their peak in the sky.

His words echoed in her mind a moment more, and Chase smiled to them.

 _My alpha's wisdom I treasure more than my place in this clan._

She glanced at the alluring moons high above, ghosting against a sea of stars, and felt the stirrings of great hunger in her veins—the hunger that had been shouted down by men hours before. _Not ever again. I hunt when I please and there is nothing they can do or say to hold me back._

And so a second wolf stole into the first night of latesummer, her pelt as dark and scarlet as fresh-spilled blood.

 **d|b**


	20. XIX - Returning

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

A sharp-toed boot slipped firmly between her ribs had become a regular wake-up call for Viper.

"Come on, get up. Rise and shine, we've a long day ahead."

Bleary with sleep, Viper opened her eyes and pushed herself upright, only to crumple back with a hiss of pain as her forehead connected with the underside of the cart floor.

Those above her laughed. "Who's that knocking? Come on, do your business and get back in."

 _Day four,_ Viper grimaced as she carefully climbed out of her place of transport for the journey home—a secret compartment located beneath the cart's base like a tiny cellar, just large enough for a small woman to curl up inside—and into the bitter predawn chill. _Another day of hell._

"Don't look so miserable," one of her smugglers grinned as he poured himself a flagon of mead, leaning contentedly against one wheel. "We've made good progress in our three days of travel so far. If all continues to go well, we'll actually make it to civilization tonight."

 _Yes, while I lie shoved under the floor like some oversized rat,_ Viper thought bitterly, stumbling stiff-legged behind the nearest bush to relieve herself. Gods, it felt good to stretch her limbs.

This was what life had become for her in the three days of travel; before the sun had risen, she was awake, granted a moment to freshen herself up and prepare for the long day ahead. She was growing to hate the days. _Safety, not comfort,_ the Guildmaster had promised her, and he'd promised rightly. The compartment in the cart was genius, perfect for concealing drugs, extra alcohol and precious merchandise on a precarious journey—but it was definitely the most uncomfortable experience Viper had ever suffered through.

For fifteen hours a day and eight hours a night she was shut in there, and granted only minutes in predawn and well after sunset to get out, eat, drink, and answer nature's call. It was for safety, to ensure that no traveller on the road knew of her presence or caught but a glimpse of her. Viper had complained the first day, but the second she found herself grateful for the smugglers' endless precautions. They'd only just crossed the border into _Naaleingevild_ , the lonehold that was once the Pale, when the caravan was searched by a patrol of dragonmen straight out of _Aardiiah_. Every stone in that city and outside of it had been overturned in Ollos's furious search for her, so they proclaimed as they examined the cart.

Viper had been too terrified to breathe so long as they were there, scared that the slightest noise she made would give herself away, yet she fully expected to be found. Even secret compartments in the floor could be discovered if one listened carefully as they walked over the floor, and heard the hollowness beneath their feet. Yet footsteps resounded above her head and not one dragonman proclaimed any sort of suspicion for secret compartments in the floor itself. All throughout the rest of the day, as the caravan was permitted to continue its journey, Viper brooded on her crazy luck.

That night she found out why the dragonmen hadn't heard the compartment underfoot. The trapdoor to the hidden storage was made of the same wood of the rest of the cart, but each plank had been carefully hollowed out and filled with lead, to give the aural impression of the floor being as thick as solid wood from axles to seats.

So already the smugglers had saved her life, and Viper was sorely tempted to trust them, if not for her continued misgivings over her ever reaching Slavetrap. _Journeys like these are never so easy,_ she thought, but though she resented her twenty-three-hour imprisonment in the cart's belly, she couldn't argue with its logic.

She came back to the cart determined to savour her few precious moments outside in the frigid pre-sunrise before she was again incarcerated for the day. The smugglers offered her a small cup of water with just a hint of mead to help it go down, and an apple and half a loaf. "Eat lightly, drink lighter; enough to satisfy your body and keep control of your bladder 'till sundown!" they'd said, when she'd first been shown her rations.

Again, hard to argue with that logic. They were honestly starting to annoy her, with their constant practicality and prepared-ness for everything.

She ate and drank as quickly as she dared, then stretched her legs a little more by walking a lap around the cart. Crates of wine were stacked over the main floor, though enough space had been temporarily cleared to get the trapdoor open. The caravan itself had a total of eight bodies, not counting her own; five could fight and three posed as trading merchants. Viper was the illegal ninth, who got the worst seat of them all. _But worth every bit of my discomfort if it means I ever see the Cistern again._

At least, she supposed, it wasn't all bad. She didn't die of boredom in the cart. Sounds outside were a bit muffled, but it was only wood around her, so she could hear clearly enough. The smugglers were fond of telling each other stories, given their great love of reading. In the bleak and lifeless _Naaleingevild_ , where there was not a single mortal settlement but a supposedly safer road to _Ahgelingrah_ —the road that crossed straight from the westhold to the midhold had a very bloody reputation—it was all they could do to talk to one another and while the hours away with discussions of history and legend.

Viper soon found herself learning a _lot_ about Tamriel before the dragons' rise.

She'd spent the first day learning about the Wolf Queen of Solitude, the misadventures of a girl named Potema, supposedly born with the soul of a werewolf. That was followed with favourite legends and songs of the past, until even the following morning Viper was struggling to get the annoyingly catchy tunes out of her head ( _Oh there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red who came riding to Whiterun from ol' Rorikstead…_ ). Before the dragonmen's interruption, Viper had been listening to how Orsinium passed to the Orcs and the tale of the Armourer's Challenge, which both proved entertaining enough. After the patrol left, the day was spent singing again, until again Viper went to sleep with the sound of the past plain in her ears ( _We drink to our youth, to days come and gone, for the age of oppression is now nearly done…_ ).

And all of yesterday, Viper had been indirectly told of the events of the Year 2920 twelve-part series. At the start of the day she'd been frustrated and miserable at again facing another long day being told bedtime stories like a child—but admittedly she found herself entranced by the drama that unfolded throughout the twelve volumes, each describing the events of a month in that final year of the First Age. She'd never been told any stories as a child. Each night had been cold and lonely. Even her time spent with Celandine had not yielded any signs of a father-daughter relationship. It remained strictly mentor-apprentice.

So perhaps it wasn't all bad being stuck under boxes of wine in a stuffy cart interior all day, listening to stories, feeling a bit like a child again. Those days were so long ago.

"All right, snake-woman, time to go."

Viper irritably met the smuggler's smiling eyes. "You enjoy this too much," she said. "You like making me suffer."

"Cautions and precautions, dear girl," he answered. "In you go. We sit on the border of the lonehold and the midhold. If we move swiftly, we will be at Silverhome as the sun goes down. From there, _Ahgelingrah_ is but two days away."

Viper sighed. She'd seen the map. _At the rate we're going, we won't be in Slavetrap for another week!_ Seven more days of enduring this…With a frustrated growl, she reluctantly climbed back over the cart and into her tiny prison. The smugglers had done their best to make it comfortable for her, lining the hard walls and floor with hay, but it was still unpleasantly small and hard. There was barely any room to move once inside, and when the trapdoor snapped shut in her face, and wine crates were replaced and stacked above, Viper couldn't ignore a growing sense of claustrophobia.

The cart started moving once more, and she resigned herself to a fourth day of stillness and stories.

The smugglers helped keep her mind off her tiny little cell by singing songs. Out of pride alone she didn't sing with them, though she was tempted to try. At last, a few hours later, only because she was bored silly, she murmured a few verses with them.

 _…_ _And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade as he told of bold battles and gold he had made…_

Eventually, well after the sun had risen (or so she presumed, there were no windows in the little compartment), the smugglers began to tell stories again. Viper even found herself comfortably dozing off during some of them—how in the days of the Fourth Era, the infamous assassins' guild the Dark Brotherhood made themselves renowned by coming back from supposed death and murdering the Emperor himself, in his own quarters, in his own ship; the old king Olaf One-Eye, who defeated the dragon Numinex in ages past and entrapped it in his palace as his pet; the Atmorans were led across the Sea of Ghosts by Ysgramor, who was the first to step upon the shores of Skyrim with his Five Hundred Companions in tow behind…

Tale followed tale, with a few songs thrown in, and then they stopped. Viper listened, and realized that the sounds of civilization surrounded them; they had to be in Silverhome, a simple farming community northwest of _Ahgelingrah_. Eventually the cart stopped, conversation ensued outside, and she waited impatiently for the wine crates above the trapdoor to be removed. She was starving and badly needed to piss.

Yet it felt like hours more passed by before she was granted freedom. She was spitting mad by the time the trapdoor was open and she was blinded by the faint starlight. Eyes slowly adjusting to the night, she stiffly climbed free. "I know I was in there hours longer than before," she growled at the smugglers, stumbling down from the cart.

"Had to wait for the streets to clear before we could," they answered. "Do your business. We have water and bread waiting."

 _What I wouldn't give for a slice of hot meat,_ Viper thought sourly as she hobbled behind the nearest patch of blackthorns. She thought of the Guildmaster and sorely wanted to punch something. _I promised you safe passage, not comfort._ That was the catch, and at first she'd thought little of it, a minor catch to endure.

How could one hay-lined compartment beneath the floor of a cart make the memory of her stiff little cot in the Cistern feel as welcoming as a feather bed?

Bread and water and a slice of goat's cheese were proffered when she returned. These she ate quickly, and almost at once she was bundled back inside. "Civilization makes for shorter out times, and civilizations are where we're going to stop at least three more nights in a row," the smugglers informed her as the trapdoor clicked shut. "Don't want to risk you being seen, do we? You'll be woken even earlier in the predawn, but you'll have longer in the day to sleep, eh?"

Viper spent most of that night cursing the eight smugglers to each infernal pit of Oblivion.

She was indeed woken much earlier the next morning than she'd become accustomed to; it seemed only two or three hours past midnight when she was allowed out of the cart and given an early breakfast. "Don't think we enjoy these early calls," said the fellow who pushed bread, fruit and a small waterskin into her arms. "Eat the food here and sip the water slowly throughout the day. Don't drink the whole skin or I can promise you torture. You won't come out again until well after nightfall today."

Viper ate and crawled back into her prison, permitting herself one tantalizing sip of water before forcing herself back into sleep. When she woke the cart was moving again, and by the way the smugglers were cheerily singing, Silverhome was far behind, and they were on the open road again.

The fifth day of the journey: Viper heard recounted history of the extinct Blades Order that formerly served the Dragon Emperors in Cyrodiil, but began their existence as renowned dragonslayers ("And ended their existence as such, when the Dread, following the Night of Silence, slew the acting grandmaster and hunted down the archivist, who once he had helped," the storyteller concluded). She listened to a jumble of dates, names, victories and defeats throughout the Great War between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, the founding of the Tribunal in Morrowind, even a legend of a floating land in the sky.

But at some point that day, surely towards the fall of evening—her waterskin was almost empty and she'd taken care to take tiny sips hourly—the caravan was again approached by dragonmen. She fell silent and still and prayed desperately to Nocturnal to keep her hidden, though she was significantly far less nervous than the first time this had happened. Still, she held her breath when footsteps crashed above her, and conversation ensued. The smugglers remained masters of subterfuge, maintaining the guise of humble wine merchants as they skillfully wound down suspicion of harbouring a wanted criminal.

Eventually the danger passed, the cart moved on, and soon her protectors got a jolly elven chorus going. The last of the tension left, and again Viper thanked the Smugglers Guild. Twice now, she'd evaded Ollos. _If it can last the week there is left to travel south…_

She slept for the rest of the ride, and was woken and released an hour before midnight. She refreshed herself on bread, wine and, to her delight, a small piece of sweetcake, which had been purchased from the Hillhaven tavern. She wolfed down the morsels, casting cautious eyes around the little settlement. The cart had been parked near the stables, so it was safe enough to sit beside the wine and enjoy a small view of thatch cottages, dirt roads, and fields of moonwashed barley.

One of the smugglers soon came to see her back into her cell, but not before he pressed a folded piece of parchment into her hands. "You look lovely in sketchwork, snake-lady," he smirked.

Seized with a horrid suspicion, Viper unfolded the parchment and blanched at what she saw; a wanted poster, dominated by an image of herself with eerie likeness. Ollos clearly remembered her well. _It's like staring into a mirror._

"These will be posted all over Tamriel," she muttered. "And the reward…" Despite herself, she grinned at her bounty. "One hundred thousand for my capture alive." It was something of a joke in the Guild, how high one could raise their bounty, which mounted as their infamy spread. _This is unprecedented._ Her sketched persona had been labeled _The Viper._ Her name was certain to go down in history, to be known by every living being in Tamriel. _I am the most infamous thief this age has ever known—and I don't even understand what it is I stole. Maybe Janquil can tell me. She's probably given it over to our client by now—and the Guild will be reveling over its sixteen Stones of Barenziah, priceless fragments of the past. This has been a most profitable business deal indeed._

The revelation brought strange comfort to her. Still smirking, she rolled up the bounty sheet and gave it back to the smuggler. "When the Guild hears of this, I bet my Sisters will turn green with envy," she mused.

"Better hope you get back to your Guild at all," the smuggler replied. "That alone will be a victory if we keep being intercepted by dragonmen. Now in you get."

Viper returned to her cramped straw bed gladly. _Just a week more, and I will be free to savour my successes with my family of thieves._

The next day, the sixth since the journey south, they left Hillhaven behind, and Viper learned of another legendary thief that existed in the Third Era, the Gray Fox, who had committed the most remarkable act of larceny known to the underworld; the theft of an Elder Scroll from the White-Gold Tower itself. This intrigued her greatly, for the Elder Scrolls were all but lost to the world since the Dread and World-Eater united. One, it was rumoured, had been found by the Dragonborn to further his pursuit of Alduin, and it was the first of the rest to disappear…where? Even the dragons did not know, and it was rumoured to remain a close-guarded secret of only the Dread and the World-Eater.

But when the tale ended, it was some time before any sort of singing or storytelling resumed, and only for short bursts; not the long marathons that they'd run in the days before. Viper wondered if they were already moving through the vast farmlands that surrounded _Ahgelingrah_. They stretched for miles beyond the hill where the vast city was found.

A third patrol of dragonmen did come, but it was not to search the cart for the fugitive; rather, upon a demonstration of papers, to escort the wine merchants to the gates of _Ahgelingrah_. Viper presumed they were keen to try the wine, though despite the danger of being discovered, she found herself gladdened by their presence; from what she heard, it seemed a pair of wild dragons appeared suddenly on the road, with intentions to gorge themselves on the travellers. The patrol of dragonmen sent them elsewhere and the smugglers were spared from a grisly end. _Nocturnal must be watching over us,_ Viper thought in relief. Too often were daytime travellers attacked and killed by the oversized lizards.

At last it seemed _Ahgelingrah_ was around them. The caravan had been led into the city itself, down to the markets. It was here Viper realized that half of her journey was over, and her travelling with these particular Guildfellows was ended. She recounted the Guildmaster's words. _A shipment of wine is to mount a delivery to_ Ahgelingrah _. From there, a delivery of honey and fruit is to make its way south beneath the mountain pass to_ Aarhorvutah _._

She wondered how these new transporters of hers would be like—tolerable, hopefully. Would they be keen storytellers or overcautious smugglers?

It was well past midnight when she was allowed out of the cart this time. She was awake at once, and after she was refreshed and rejuvenated on bread, honey and water, Viper was taken a little deeper into the empty marketplace to where a second cart was loaded and waiting. Six men were waiting for her.

"A shipment south, with living cargo to conceal," said one of the wine merchants. "Look after her. She's worth a pretty sum in the wrong hands."

"She won't fall into any other hands we don't allow," the other smuggler answered.

Viper quirked one eyebrow. "I'll presume that's an affirmation."

Unimpressed, that smuggler stepped back and gestured to the laden cart. "Get in."

From one crawlspace to another; with a slight sigh, Viper proceeded to climb through the little trapdoor. This one was doomed to be much more uncomfortable than the previous; it was deprived of the luxury of softening hay. She curled up on the hard surface with many bitter curses as the floor was replaced overhead. Back in Smuggler's Bay she'd been gifted with some new clothes for travel; some light furs, linens and a pair of cowhide boots to last the frigid Skyrim nights and the long journey back to New Riften. They weren't her Guild leathers, locked safely away in her trunk in the Cistern, but they sufficed for travel just the same, and were at least a little cushioning on the unyielding floor of her containment.

She slept soundly throughout the predawn and the sunrise, and when she woke she sensed _Ahgelingrah_ was already far behind them. There was a terrible gnawing pain in her stomach, and Viper realized she hadn't had breakfast yet—though she had a nasty suspicion that she wasn't to receive anything until that evening. _These smugglers intend to starve me,_ she thought mutinously.

The second half of the journey became considerably more unpleasant than the first. These smugglers spoke in short, formal conversations, told no stories and sung no songs. Viper had quite forgotten what it meant to be completely and utterly bored. Too restless to lie still, too awake to sleep and too hungry to think, she started telling herself the stories all over again, in a quiet murmur that only she could hear. They came with surprising ease to her tongue, though she'd only heard each story once. But what she could not phrase in words, she relived in her mind, and the lightlessness of the compartment led for easy pictures to form and blossom in her head as she spoke.

Through this, she was able to last the seventh tedious day.

It was past midnight when Viper was let out. She stumbled blindly for some place to relieve herself, for the smugglers had lit no torches for fear of bandits or beasts. _Definitely overcautious_ , she thought in exasperation, as she groped her way back to the cart.

Half a loaf of bread and a bit of water was all she was offered before she was put back into the cart. She was starting to descend through the trapdoor when she felt faint icy pricks upon her skin, and realized in puzzlement, "It's snowing." That was odd. It was only Last Seed. Snow didn't fall in the midhold during Last Seed.

"We made good progress during the day," the smugglers explained. "We've come to the foot of the mountains around the Throat of the World, and made camp in the tundra there. Sometimes snow drifts down from the great peaks that never feel the summer sun. The mountain pass is not far from where we are."

Viper brushed the spots of frosty cold from her face and mournfully climbed back into her wooden prison. _Another day to endure coiled up like a snail in its shell._ It was almost growing easier to suffer through each step of her flight. At least they hadn't encountered any dragonmen today. She thought again of her grown infamy, the extreme bounty she'd attained for her actions, and the profit the Guild had made, and smiled in her triumph as the trapdoor clapped shut above her. She counted off on her fingers and realized home was only three days away. _I've almost made it._

The eighth day dawned without ceremony, and Viper woke again to the sensation of the moving cart. She felt she would have enjoyed these sleep-ins more if not for the fierce hunger that stirred in her. Her throat was parched, and though she banged on the underside of the floor and risked shouting for water, she received none. Finally her voice cracked and she sighed miserably, surrendering herself to endure another long ride, living only to anticipate the water and food she'd receive come nightfall. Every second that ticked by, her dislike of these smugglers increased. _They treat me more like prisoner than a favour to someone their Guild owes._

Alone in the blackness with nothing but her memories to engage her senses in, she thought of Janquil and wondered how the Dunmer was. _If I'm not back in a fortnight, I'm dead or lost, that was what I told Cenrin._ Viper was certain that thirteen days had passed since she'd left Slavetrap, and if travel went smoothly she'd be back in New Riften by the sixteenth day. _Two days for him to believe I'm dead or lost—or perhaps Janquil has forewarned him that I will be longer, if she knows the Smugglers Guild's method of transporting live cargo._ She debated whether her WANTED posters had arrived in _Aarhorvutah_ yet, and considered her Guildmates' reactions to them.

The day wound on, and Viper slipped in and out of sleep—by the end of this journey she'd have to reset her body clock—yet to her it seemed the air was growing colder. By the hours that had passed, however, she believed that if they had made their way through the pass it would have been done some time ago, and the autumnwood was warmer than this, to her memory. The hooves of the carthorses and the wheels of the cart made crunching sounds akin to snow than fallen leaves, though then again, everything sounded rather muffled to her from in here.

 _Or it should,_ she realized, and started in alarm. _I should be hearing things more plainly in this cell; there is no straw under me to further distort the sounds from outside. What I am hearing_ is _snow—the cart has gone off-course._ What had happened? Where was it heading now?

She banged on the trapdoor. "Hey! Where are we going?"

"Shut up!" The hiss was low and urgent. "For gods' sakes, shut up!"

Viper scowled at the ceiling. "What's going on?"

"We've had a bear following us. Caught scent of us three miles ago and it's been following ever since."

"Can't your mercenaries handle a bear? I can hear you've gone off-route."

"A temporary setback—and we'd rather not risk fighting, particularly one of those brutes. So if you know what's good for you, shut your hole and keep quiet. With any luck the storm tonight will throw it off."

A storm—perhaps that explained the chill in the air. _I forgot these smugglers have answers for everything._ "I'd shut up better if I had a mouthful of water," she growled. "I want to still be alive when you let me out of here. Is it dark enough yet?"

"No, not yet. Water, I can amend." The trapdoor opened a sliver, just enough for a small waterskin to be pushed through.

Yet a little of the air from beyond had seeped into the compartment, and Viper frowned at what she scented. It was sharp and cold, and the taste of frost was stark. _Not only does it feel like night beyond,_ she thought warily, fumbling with the waterskin's sealed neck, _but it is bitterly cold. Frost does not fall thickly in the bearwood during summer, even latesummer. Just how much of a detour have these men taken?_

She was still trying to figure out the logic as she finally opened the waterskin with a sigh of relief. Her throat ached in anticipation of quenching fluid, and she drank not in small, restrained sips but one long, greedy gulp. It was only when she lowered the skin again, trying to figure out how she would tie it back up, when she became aware of the strange taste the liquid had left in her mouth.

Instantly Viper was alert. The flavours were strange things to put in drinking water, and running a tongue around the inside of her cheeks and over her lips, she discerned their origins, reminded of the countless hours spent by Celandine's alchemy table.

 _Monarch wing…deathbell…Histcarp scales…nectar of a yellow mountain flower…crushed wheat…_

Horror held her still. _All exhaust its consumers, and their properties are extremely potent when brewed to make a poison of fatigue…_

 _Drugged. They've drugged me._ She threw the skin aside and pummelled frantically on the trapdoor, desperately trying to open it, but her arms felt as heavy as lead and she could not hold them up for long. In her need to quench her ravaging thirst she'd drunk several mouthfuls all at once, and in response her body was weakening with shocking rapidity to the sleeping draught. Within moments she was struggling to keep her eyes open, her breathing quick and frantic in a desperate effort to stay awake. Everything was growing heavier, her thoughts turning woozy.

Viper woke suddenly on her side, her arms wrenched behind her and wrists bound painfully tight. The first thing she felt was panic. _What have they done? They said they'd bring me home. What are they doing?_ She could barely move in this cramped little space, which did nothing to ease her slowly brooding fear. The effects of the poison were still to wear completely off, and so for a little while longer she remained lightheaded, struggling to control her frenzied thoughts.

 _The Guildmaster gave me his word!_ she fumed. _He owed this to Janquil! When the Thieves Guild hears of this…_

Her ear was pressed flat to the wood; she heard wheels and hooves crunching. _Snow,_ she thought faintly, _there is snow under this cart. There should not be, unless they're climbing the mountain, which is stupid, no cart can find safe passage through the mountains…_ Horrible suspicions circled like ravens in her head, each more frightening than the last. It struck Viper suddenly; she was trapped in this compartment, completely and utterly trapped, and each time she'd climbed into it she'd been trapped. There was no way to open it from within, and her transporters had now efficiently become her captors and jailors. The hidden smuggling compartment really had become her prison. _Only they know I'm here…_

It was some hours (she thought) before the darkness lifted. The cart came to a halt, and she heard footsteps echo above her, an instant before the trapdoor was flung open. The light that greeted her was so bright it hurt. She closed her eyes and turned away with a muffled hiss, dazed and blinded by its glare after so long immersed in blackness. Hands grasped her and hauled her bodily out of the crawlspace into that daylight, which offered no warmth. Chill winds raked her matted hair and cut coldly across her face. Before her feet even touched the ground Viper knew that snow was all around them.

Her eyes were still adjusting. She moved without protest, weakened from hunger, fighting to restore her sight. She saw glimpses of shadows, flashes of white beneath her, which rose to meet her as her captors thrust her forward onto her knees. Ice crawled up her legs and she fought down shivers. It was freezing.

"Where have you taken me?" she muttered, blinking. It was starting to grow easier.

The smugglers laughed. "Welcome to _Gahriknaar_ , Viper."

 _Gahriknaar_ —that wasn't in the autumnhold. She cautiously looked up, peering through the tangled strands of her filthy hair. She saw the silhouettes of houses washed white and streets drowning in layers of silver frost, and the sky was pink and orange with the rising sun. Snow was everywhere. It was still summer, yet it was terribly cold.

It came to her then. _There is never summer in the north. I was never taken south. They misled me from the moment I left_ Ahgelingrah _and dragged me to the northhold…to what end?_

She heard before she saw.

Footsteps crunched in the snow and her head snapped up. The light was still too great for her, and for a moment it overwhelmed her yet again…but as her eyes adjusted, Viper wished in a surge of terror that they hadn't.

 _Trust. Trust is misplaced, overrated. One cannot trust a smuggler. I trusted you, Janquil, but you trusted them…_

A man stood before her, and the fact that he was a kinsman meant nothing, for there was no mistaking those robes, alike to the ones Ollos had worn. There was a glinting purple stone pendant at his throat, eerily familiar, and a cold emptiness in his black gaze that inspired fear and surrender in the hearts of those who looked upon them.

And the smile he offered was not one of welcome. _The serpent succeeded only in sliding from the maw of one dragon into another…_

"Greetings, Viper," he said softly, reveling openly in her yawning despair. "You caused quite a stir a few days ago in _Aardiiah_. Yes, undoubtedly we'll come to know each other very well. I am Cadmir—you know my name well, I can see it in your eyes, and so you should. They are lovely eyes, so full of life and vigour. I wonder if Ollos would spare them for me when he has finished with you—yes, he wanted you alive for a reason. You took something rather valuable of his, and he would very much like to know where it went."

 **d|b**


	21. XX - The Forest Road

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

 _Fool,_ Ross berated himself, as the dragon came around again. _Bloody careless fool._

The power of its wings disturbed the topmost branches of the trees, sending a shower of pine needles upon the forest. His horse whickered in fear as the dragon's shadow flashed across them. He fretfully hushed his terrified mount; Bloods, he seemed to recall from somewhere, had a particularly sharp sense of hearing for their kind.

The silence that followed was so profound it almost ached. Ross pressed his back against the rough bark of the tree where he had taken shelter. Fading light slid through the trembling branches. Night would be upon them soon, and there was nowhere safe to go; he would have to ride through the nightfall and hope to reach the mountains and the border of the southhold before dawn and the hunt resumed…if it would ever stop.

He heard its wings and closed his eyes, trembling, as it swept overhead once more. It made no sound in the depths of its long throat, but Ross could feel its piercing stare sweeping the trees and shuddered in dread; all dragons had miraculous eyesight—it was their prized sense above all. Within moments, if the dragon continued its circling, it would succeed in spooking his horse into the open, and in this dense forest, the horse could not run far from its rider. _We will both be dead if we let fear take us._

Had the Greensmile anticipated this? It was a treacherous path to take, to ride an old forest road through dragon territory and find his way to the mountain pass that made the stony border of the greenwood and bearwood of _Gravuungevild_ , the autumnhold.

For three days and nights, Ross had ridden the road with little trouble. He had taken his time, favouring caution over speed—but all that had counted for nothing when a Blood dragon had picked up his scent. One night had been spent sleepless already, and in a terrifying game of cat-and-mouse, dragon and freerider had swept through the greenwood.

Ross had had to abandon the path and take his chances through the treacherous forest; he could not keep riding the road, else the Blood would easily anticipate where he next would be. It knew these trees better than he did. It was enjoying the game, he could tell; sometimes it would laugh and bellow what sounded like jests in its guttural tongue. It was feral, with no knowledge of the mortal tongue or respect for mortality whatsoever, so even when Ross had proclaimed to it that he was a freerider—only a messenger for hire, sternly neutral to both dragons and mortality—the hunt went on. He doubted the Blood even knew what a freerider was.

His fourth evening since leaving _Gosvahgraag_ , and he had not even made it to the pass. Ross feared he never would. Dragons were peerless hunters and, once a scent was gained, it was not abandoned easily. Yet again the dragon came round with a rattling snarl, one that made his horse start badly, his terrified whinny barely stifled.

 _We came too close. We must keep moving, before the dragon loses patience and razes the forest down._ In one fluid movement Ross swung himself into the saddle, turned the head of his horse, and spurred it into a gallop. He hadn't gained much ground before the dragon realized its prey was fleeing. He heard the change of its wingbeat pattern, and fear took deep root in his soul. _This racket will only draw more dragons to my position…I will be dead before I reach the mountains if I cannot lose this accursed creature!_

The vast trees were all around him. Ross prayed his mount would not trip over the bulging roots. He dared not venture too deeply into the more ancient heart of the greenwood, even with the Blood gaining with unfair speed upon them. He shuddered to think what dark creatures lurked in the shadows of the boughs, uninfluenced by mortality for a hundred years—and more dragons dwelled in the thickest parts of the forest. To enter deeper would still be his death, but by the maw of a different beast.

His horse was panicking, galloping blindly, almost out of control; when Ross turned his head he barely followed it. Desperate, he placed one palm upon the frenzied animal's throat and whispered, "You and I have walked the world together; do not lose faith in me now."

The words carried only the feel of sentiment and reassurance, but to the frightened steed it was enough. Ross bowed forward in the saddle and tugged sharply on the reins, spinning his mount to his left. The dragon came screaming behind them, talons slashing through the thick branches, raining a shower of green and brown upon both man and horse. Ross batted the obstructions from his eyes and ducked hard beneath a low-hanging branch that appeared suddenly in his path.

 _The woods grow ever more treacherous. They know of the disturbance in their territory._ The strange thought passed through Ross's mind as though he'd always known. He'd once heard a story behind the mystery of the greenwood. Not all the trees had died or burned in the purge that birthed the Fifth Era; there were those so ancient and deep-rooted that dragonfire had not burned them down to their core. These few survivors grew descendants that carried echoes of their patriarchs' bitter memories, and slowly the woods came to embrace a more evil nature, and with this new mindfulness they determined never to burn or suffer again at the hands of men or dragons. The lumberjacks had to be careful what trees they chose to process.

The greenwood had always been seen as queer and full of misadventures by the people outside of the southhold—full of memories and foul thoughts, and magic too stubborn to die. It was in the shadow of these boughs that creatures once dabbled in the ancient, perilous art of Earth Magic, and where unkindly animals stalked every flitting shadow.

Greensmile had spoken of change, and the way he had, it was as if he believed that all the world, from the lowliest insect to the proudest of beasts, was to change in some way. _Perhaps,_ the freerider thought grimly, _if such legends and rumours can be trusted in to do good—but it seems that all old tales that reawaken do only ill to this unfortunate world._ The fires of Oblivion in the Third Era, and the dragons' return in the Fourth…even the Dragonborn and his unforeseen betrayal.

The Blood's throaty bellow brought him back into reality; Ross swore and turned his horse between two tall pines, and heard the sharp _crack_ as the dragon's plunge was broken, talons snapping splinters from the trees. It shrieked in frustration, and Ross urged his horse faster. _Get back to the old road and make a break for it…running circles in the forest will get us nowhere…_

Wings pummelled the sky above, and suddenly a storm of white burst in the woods just ahead. His steed started and reared in fear, and Ross closed his eyes against the blast of icy air. He recovered to the sight of sparkling ice and bitter frost, drenching the trees and green beyond, and turned his horse away. _It's growing tired of this._ One hand still tight on the reins, he let the other grasp his crossbow as once more he fled, keenly aware of the dragon above their heads rounding back for another attack.

This time, as the shadow passed, Ross raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt disappeared through the canopy, but whether it struck home or not, he didn't know, for the dragon Shouted ice once more. It struck too heavily and too close, and both man and animal were peppered with frozen shards. The force of its impact had been incredible, sending violent shudders through the earth underfoot. Ross gasped with the effort of turning his horse from the streak of snow once more barricading their way.

 _It's penning us in, or trying to,_ he thought numbly. _It wants to tire us, then move in for its kill._

The dragon's circle drawn above their heads was tighter. The shadow passed over them again. This time Ross sat heavy in the saddle and pulled back sharply on the reins, and his horse slid to a frantic halt as the green brush ahead of them was struck with a third Shout of frost.

Ross slid from the saddle and led his mount into the shelter of an old fir's vast trunk. There he threw his cloak around the terrified horse's head and nervously whispered words of comfort. _Above all, keep silent, keep silent._

The Blood returned, but its cries had quietened. Once, it flew over the trees where Ross was hidden. It returned, lower than the first time, its belly scraping the topmost branches. Was it listening for them? Was it aware that its prey had abandoned its flight and chosen to hide?

Ross's heart beat faster. As he listened to the dragon's wingbeats fade, he slowly withdrew a bolt and carefully reloaded his crossbow. It was ready when he heard it return, but it did not pass by directly overhead. Its circles were widening.

 _Has it lost us?_ He regarded this possibility with cautious hope. _Perhaps it will give up…_

Then there came a much different pattern of wings, and when the shadow came, it did not disappear. An instant later Ross heard the telltale _thud_ of the dragon's landing, tearing through the branches to descend heavily upon the forest floor.

As the last leaves and twigs pattered to earth, Ross listened to it draw a deep thrumming breath, and many more in short, precise gulps. _Scenting,_ he realized, _it's scenting us, or trying to._ He tightened his grip around his weapon. One powerful shot in the right spot could wound the beast enough to make a desperate escape…but even the thought of standing before the monster intent on killing him dotted his skin with sweat.

He listened to it chuckle and mutter something in its tongue, felt vibrations run through the ground as the beast took a few paces. Its long tail knocked lightly against the trees as it swept to and fro. Once more it drew deep breaths, each rattling in its long throat. Ross could imagine its slanted yellow eyes gleaming wickedly from the dark hollows in its head, pictured the fin-like folds around its skull flexing as it strained to hear but a single sound that could give the prey away.

A few tense minutes passed. Ross's nerves mounted. It sounded as if it were drawing steadily closer, but it could have only been his fear exaggerating what he heard. At last he could not stand it; very slowly, every movement made with extreme care, the Imperial freerider pressed his shoulders to the bark, took one step to brace himself, and peered cautiously around the tree's trunk.

He saw the dragon only a few bounds beyond, crouched just in front of where its ice breath had struck. Its head was turned away from him, eyes peering intently through the trees to its left. After a moment it drew back, still sniffing. One wing, now an ungainly foreleg upon the ground, extended and the dragon swung leisurely around, gazing thoughtfully down the tangled thoroughfare where Ross and his horse had galloped down moments before.

Heart pounding even harder, he hid behind the fir once more. _It cannot end like this,_ he thought fiercely. _I have a message that must be delivered. If I have survived dragons until now, then I can survive them again._ He stared at his crossbow, loaded and prepared, and clenched it harder in a surge of indecision. _The rest of the dragons may learn of this…if I kill it, as feral as it is, the dragons may no longer see me as neutral and treat me as an enemy to their kind. If I do not fight, it will kill me, and I will have failed the warden of the south._ It was terribly unfair, but fairness had died with good in the purge.

There was no other way to escape. _Perhaps I can blind it, in one eye, at least,_ Ross thought nervously. He would only have time for one shot—it took time to reload a crossbow, and that time needed to be spent mounting his steed and fleeing once more through the forest. A dragon couldn't run nearly as fast as a horse, and it would take the creature time to punch its way through the canopy and back into the sky once more, and by then…precious seconds would have been gained, time to throw the beast off once and for all.

Ross steeled himself. _Get out, shoot. Try to aim. It will draw breath and attack with its Voice. Maybe…_ A new possibility occurred to him. _Maybe I can shoot it down its throat. That would be a stunning and crippling strike—_

The heads of the trees rocked and groaned to the tempests of wings.

Ross looked up in alarm. Two more vast shadows soared over the forest, and back again; circling. _More have come to the hunt,_ he thought in horror, yet one of the newcomers began to speak—in the language of the dragons, so Ross could not understand, but it seemed that the two other dragons had come to speak to the Blood, not to hunt.

The landed dragon reared its head and snarled an answer—it seemed angry, but a few short growls from its kin circling above silenced its fury. It responded in a more civil manner, though reluctant.

Ross tried to divine the soul of the conversation. _Whatever is being said, the Blood's attention has been turned from me, to something else…_ Then one of the skyborne creatures spoke a name amid a flood of other unfathomable words; _Alduin_.

 _The World-Eater…_ A possibility occurred to Ross. _The two in the air must be soldiers. The Blood…is it being recruited? Or is it…was it a soldier all along? It was not as feral as I thought?_ His hands trembled. _I almost attacked such a dragon—that would certainly have enraged the rest. Mortals that dare to strike a soldier of their overlord suffer terribly for it. Even those that are innocent of the deed must pay the price…_

The dragons spoke some more, until at last the Blood spat some frustrated response, unfolded its wings, and sprang into the air. A gale was stirred in the dragon's ascent, slapping the heavy boughs and sending another shower of debris to the floor—then three shadows passed over the forest and the sound of the dragons faded. One melancholy cry echoed through the sky and the woods below, and then all was silent.

The hunt was abandoned.

For one breathless moment, Ross could not believe his luck. It was indeed some time before he moved at all, making his way slowly to where his horse stood, trembling still. He pulled his cloak away and threw it once more about his shoulders, and stroked the frightened beast. "To the road, my friend," he told him, "but give me a moment to gain a sense of where we are, and how much further we must go. Night is closing in."

He lashed the reins to a low branch of the fir, then began to climb. It was a large tree, and he didn't need to climb it all the way to the topmost branches, jutting well clear of the upper canopy. Ross burst through it just as the sun slipped behind the peaks of the mountains beyond.

The air was already chill and sharp on his skin, and in the darkening sky he glimpsed the first of the constellations. Below him stretched a sweeping sea of darkest green, and when he looked to the east, he saw the three dragons fading fast, their silhouettes no larger than ants before they vanished entirely. _To the east,_ Ross thought with a frown, _where I am headed—are they to the hold itself or does their business take them right over the border?_

His eyes lowered from the sky to the mountains themselves; he'd ridden in the shadow of the Throat of the World since leaving _Gosvahgraag_ , and remained in its dark shadow still; but he could see the pass and the stretch of the stony mountains that made it, dividing _Stumgevild_ from _Gravuungevild_. They were barely a mile away. _We are closer than I anticipated,_ Ross thought in delight, and descended the tree swiftly, keen to reach the mountain pass and be in the autumnhold before the morning came.

 _And from there, the easthold is but a few days' ride._

He'd returned to his calming horse and thrown the reins back over the saddlehorn when he became aware that something was watching him.

Ross looked up. A small dark huddle perched in a knotted mass of mouldy branches just above him. He glimpsed tiny bright eyes and a long black beak in the gloom of the darkening forest—no dragon, but ravens had always made Ross feel uncomfortable. They were hoarse and clever creatures seen all too often feasting with crows and flies on the flesh of the dead, if the dragons had left any remains, and remained to be seen as cunning animals of ill omen. "Shoo," he told it sharply, and the large bird spread vast tattered wings and vanished into the darker wood with shrill screams of protest.

He shook his head in its wake and gladly mounted his waiting steed. _I've had quite enough of flying things in this greenwood for one day._

 **d|b**


	22. XXI - Furthering a Legacy

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

Rogghart was chuckling when he found Nurr—which never was a good sign.

"Pucker up, Moony," he grinned. "Emilyn's drawn you for guard duty."

Nurr groaned inwardly and sighed outwardly. "Of course she did."

"Hey, we all have to do it sometime," the Orc pointed out. "Even I have to."

"And I get no reprieve for the death of the dragon, then?"

"It's been over a week since the brute kicked the bucket. You've had all your privileges, and every other Blade in this Temple can use the same excuse. Dragons can be killed without having to bring you along."

"Mhm, but nowhere near as skillfully," Nurr mused. He regretfully vacated his chair, where he'd been having a perfectly nice doze before Rogghart had come found him. "How's Banviel?" he asked.

Rogghart frowned. "Fine as ever," he said, then smirked. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

"Her father taught me how to kill even the most powerful of dragon kinds with one arrow, and she's lived in the Temple all her life. I've known her two years shy of the length of her very existence. Am I not allowed to ask after her?"

"All right, I get it. Yes, she's fine. Perky as always."

Nurr's thoughts of Banviel quickly slid away, to that of his apparent guard duty. Delightful. "Where does she—Emilyn—want me?"

Rogghart shrugged. "All over the Temple."

"Oh, I'm going to be doing a whole clean sweep of the place?" Well, it was better than keeping watch over a stationary door for three hours. "I'm now feeling slightly less sorry for myself. What are you doing?" he asked as he collected his bow and quiver from his trunk. "You're not on duty as well, are you? Else you wouldn't be smirking like that."

"Of course I'm not as unfortunate as you—today, at least. I'm going to spend my free hours in the training room and practice my bone-shattering thrusts with whatever unfortunate sod's to be found down there already."

Rarely were the training arenas, under- or overground, empty; it seemed most Blades soon developed an obsession for honing their every combat skill to a razor-sharp point (maybe it was the Order's name that influenced it). "Well, I pity whoever's not sparring in the lovely morning sunshine," said Nurr solemnly, kicking his trunk back under his cot.

Rogghart chuckled. "Indeed."

Nurr slid sadly into his armour—guard duty required that, in case of unexpected attack—and slipped quiver and bow over his back. When he more or less appeared how he did when he went off dragon hunting, minus his travelling cloak, he stepped from the sleeping quarters and into the torchlit corridors of the Temple. Rogghart was long gone by then. That Orc definitely didn't look it, but when he wanted to get somewhere, he got there with surprising speed—as he'd proven when he'd saved Banviel's life.

Not for the first time since he returned, Nurr cast his mind back to the lair raid as he began his patrols. Lotjoorkriid had proven a tough fight, as did most dragons they attacked in their dens, but even Lio had confessed that the Red had not been nearly as fierce as other lesser types of dragon they'd put down. "Bloods fight savagely, Ancients with force, Elders with precision, Frosts with patience—and all those kinds proved a harder challenge than he did," he'd said as the victorious group gathered around Lotjoorkriid's body.

It was Screema-Lei who'd discovered a possible reason why. "He's covered with mending wounds, some of them quite severe. He must have been in a hard fight recently, and made a lair in the stonehold to heal himself. We confronted him when he was at his weakest."

Not even Nurr and his sharp sight had noticed the wounds, but once the Argonian had pointed them out, they were impossible to miss; gouges in one thick leg, a whole side of the tail burned, infected talon wounds in the stomach, scar tissue forming over the shredded tip of one wing. "This one has been through the thick," he'd remarked.

The Blades themselves had only sustained minor injuries; Lio had been grazed in the rockfall, and two of Helena's ribs had been cracked, but both were easily amended as the Nord magician gathered her strength enough to heal her and Lio's ailments. Then they'd collected what steel treasures they could from the lair—ore, bits of old armour and swords for the smiths to melt down into resources needed for making Blades armour and weapons—and taken their leave as dawn broke over the highlands.

And Nurr, now permanently deprived of a visit to Eagle's Rest, found out that celebrations in the Temple weren't as bad as he remembered them. He was the celebrated dragonslayer, who astonished his Knight Brothers and Sisters by showing up to it, but he could take a few bottles of ale and slip away from the party, and enjoy his accomplishment quietly and thoughtfully on the overlook.

It had indeed been a week since his arrow pierced Lotjoorkriid's eye, and Nurr hoped that his next lair raid wouldn't take place for at least another month. He could enjoy the latesummer in the comfort of Sky Haven, and reconnect with the current events of his Order.

Wandering the whole Temple on guard duty was a good way to start.

Nurr soon came into the main hall. A pair of unarmored Blades sat cheerfully discussing history over at the end of one longtable, while three initiates stood before Alduin's Wall, successfully analyzing each carving and its purpose. Nurr smiled to that; he could remember doing that himself, with more success than retelling dates and numbers and names from parchment. He definitely wasn't bookish, but a Wall wasn't bookish either.

Fellow brothers- and sisters-in-arms he encountered as he traversed corridor to corridor. Nurr recounted the names of those who he knew well; Hafkar and Gjolfreid he found by the stairs to the overlook, two sons of Skyrim who'd been initiates with him, and Kierra he met on her way to the library, a Redguard remarkably dangerous with her dual shortswords, who he'd shared in her first lair raid with. Screema was already in the library, keenly reading and rereading volumes so thick just one would have made a fine pillow, and Nurr spotted Trystane, one of Archivist Rendal's acolytes, aiding one of the Order's older initiates in locating certain books.

It was in the library that Nurr also found Lio, engrossed in what appeared to be a tome describing great battles throughout the ages. "Reckon one day we'll be in the pages of a book like this?" he remarked.

Lio looked up with a shrug. "If we're ever rediscovered, and at the rate we're killing off the draconic inhabitants of the stonehold, something tells me it won't be long before the dragons, and eventually the Dread, realize we were never destroyed in the purge."

Nurr knew _that_ story well. "You hated the library more than anywhere else in the Temple," Lio remarked, "so forgive my surprise at seeing you here."

"Lucky me got drawn for guarding old stone."

"Lucky indeed," Lio grinned. "How are you coping?"

"If I don't have something new to think about soon, I might just shoot something."

"Let's not go popping off our Blades-to-bes," the Imperial decided, snapping the book shut and getting to his feet. "You haven't been to the overlook yet, have you? I could do with a mouthful of fresh air, don't you agree?"

Nurr didn't disagree.

Most of the Temple was found underground; only a few tall doorframes built in the Akaviri style, which framed the doors in and out to the open courtyard, gave any indication that there was a Temple there at all. Nurr knew his history of the place well enough; it was constructed in the First Age by the ancient Akaviri Dragonguard, and nestled high in the mountains, it was concealed from unwelcome eyes while providing an excellent vantage point. Abandoned for thousands of years with the disbanding of the Dragonguard, it was the Dread himself and two last Blades—for the Order was almost extinct in that day—that rediscovered it. His blood had unsealed the Temple and provided a safe haven, and an opportunity for the Order to revive and assume the role of their ancient predecessors as dragonslayers.

 _A dream that lasted for but a few short months, and was very nearly lost,_ Nurr remembered, _but what the Dread did not anticipate was the Apprentice._

The Apprentice had once been a single insignificant person (popularly believed to be female, though it remained a matter for debate) that had been brought from the wilds, adopted by the acting Grandmaster. The Dread had not known of her, and so when the Night of Silence passed and he destroyed what he'd begun to rebuild, he believed the Blades Order had finally perished with the deaths of the two Blades. He had not learned of the Apprentice's existence, and so he did not know to look for her.

But it was she who nurtured the memory of the Blades. On her own, with but a few brief months of training to guide her, and in complete secret, she rebuilt the Order and reestablished their presence in Nirn. She eventually became the first Grandmaster of the Fifth Era and died still with that title. Her successors grew the Order, which became a true reincarnation of the Dragonguard as the purge claimed all the world, and dragons asserted their dominance over mortality.

And as the Fifth Era dawned in blood and fire, the purpose of the Blades had become plainly clear: honour the crusade of the Akavir.

 _Or simply, kill the dragons,_ Nurr translated.

He and Lio came to the overlook and found it already occupied; the morning was still young, and the courtyard was in use. Nurr grinned at the sight that greeted him there. "Take a look, Lio," he smirked. "Unbladed, squalling it out in the Pit of Pain."

Initiates had been the one to name the outdoor sparring arena that; and every initiate soon learned why.

"Poor things," said Lio, unable to hide his wry smile. "They have Jor overseeing them."

So they did; the one-armed, one-legged master-of-arms stood at the edge of the ring with a crowd of determined-faced adolescents, barking corrections in his rough rasp, as two teenaged initiates darted in and out of melee, grasping their tourney swords as though their lives depended on it. _Not yet,_ Nurr thought with a grin. _Not until you're bladed. Then you'll learn what it is to depend on your weapon._

He was an archer by choice, as Helena was a magician, but every initiate spent a minimum of three years learning by the sword. Even he had to suffer through the Pit of Pain, whacking at his peers and fellows with a tourney sword. Jor had been a (much younger) master-of-arms then, and as Nurr stood and watched the sparring initiates for awhile, listening to the grizzled Nord's endless stream of criticism, he was thrown back into the memories of his adolescence, the days when he'd served the Order as a humble initiate.

It had been far better than his childhood.

"So, master swordsman," he said, turning to Lio, immediately withdrawing from his darkening thoughts, "is Jor's continued exasperation with reason?"

Lio chuckled. "Do you want to hear all the errors I can notice?"

"A few would suffice."

"They don't tread the sword as an extension of their body—they still treat it as the weapon itself. That's the first thing I notice. It's why it hurts when it jars, how they are so easily disorientated. They also haven't found the flow of their instinct. That will come with patience, courage and practice, but they fight with such prediction. I could go on."

"They'll learn to adapt and trust in themselves one day," Nurr said. "We did, after all—and yes, though it hurts to admit it, not so long ago we were initiates ourselves, and no different from them."

"Not so long ago?" Lio laughed. "We were bladed a decade back."

"A decade is a long time to fight dragons," Nurr replied.

"That's true," Lio conceded. "Now, I fear, the hunting of dragons has lost its thrill in me."

Nurr nodded. No more excitement at the thought of killing those dangerous creatures. "It has become a part of us now, but a fragment of who we are," he murmured thoughtfully. It was one reason he'd grown to dislike the celebrations after each successful lair raid—he did not revel in the part of him that had perfected the art of killing. Even the fact he'd mastered killing remorseless killers, slavers and banes of mortality brought him little comfort. _It is still killing, after all._

But his blade was named _Fusozay_ , and the blade of a Blade defined who he was. Nurrkha'jay lived still without regret.

"Do you remember when we did our three years' minimum in the Pit of Pain, and we deviated off on different paths to hone our different skills?" he asked suddenly.

Lio stared at him. "Remember? It made the other half of our time as initiates. Of course I remember!"

Nurr chuckled. "Just checking." They sauntered a wide berth around the training arena and came to the balcony, overlooking the surrounding misty highlands that made the world beyond. Dragonsong echoed faintly from the distant mountains. "Do you know how Gelwin trained me into the mastery of archery?"

Lio shrugged. "To be honest, I can't remember, or you never did tell."

"I'm feeling oddly nostalgic this morning, and I never did share my backstory with the others back in the cave. You don't know it at all. I'll take baby steps."

"You're like Screema, improving every day."

"Your faith never ceases to amaze me, Lio. Anyway, when I decided to favour the bow over the sword, Gelwin decided to train me as his personal pupil—and he had a method I found rather strange and frequently drew great impatience from. It was the way he'd been trained, he said, which was the best excuse he had to shut me and my grumbling up."

"Keep going, then, you've got my intrigue well and truly roused by now."

Nurr smiled wryly, calloused fingers flexing in memory. "He taught me the golden rule of learning marksmanship; consistency marries to accuracy marries to speed. Consistency he taught first. It was my first real impression of Gelwin, and at the beginning I thought him a little mad. Sometimes he would have me stand unmoving for hours in the perfect stance of an archer, to gain a real sense of the position. He knew if I was an inch out of place. Call it torturous meditation, my arms were dead meat after each session I quickly grew to dread. When I could achieve that stance without assistance, Gelwin next had me doing something like an obstacle course; I ran, fell, tumbled and rolled, and when he said the word, whatever action I was doing, I had to fall into the archer's perfect pose at once. At first I practiced without the bow, and I thought that was hard—then the bow was added." He shook his head with a rueful chuckle. "A few hard months went by, and in all that time I never shot a single arrow, but I became as comfortable with the weapon itself as my own fur."

Lio's eyebrows raised. "That's genius."

"Glad you think so. I still saw it as a nuisance. I felt I hadn't achieved anything, so one day I went to Gelwin and demanded he teach me the secret as to how to shoot a dead-centre bullseye by the end of the day. So with an all-knowing smile, he strapped a quiver on my shoulders, led me outside to this very courtyard, and told me to assume the perfect pose. This I did. He then withdrew an arrow and set it to the string for me. I drew it back and loosed it. It didn't hit the centre, but Gelwin seemed to have expected that. 'Again,' he told me in my disappointment, 'but do not move. I will know if you do.' Growing all the more annoyed with him, I fired a second arrow—it embedded itself practically on top of the first. Gelwin then ordered me to empty the quiver—I was not to move or aim anywhere else, I was only to empty my shot into the target. The only part of me that was to move was my drawing arm. The result of this exercise was that the arrows landed so close together you could have put your hands around the shafts, wrist to wrist and fingertip to fingertip, and grasp them all. I'd even shot arrows on arrows and ruined a good few doing so."

"That's…remarkable."

"It was. I hadn't shot an arrow for months—and I was shooting like that. When I turned in astonishment to Gelwin, he said, 'Consistency achieved.' Remember his training rule I mentioned before—consistency marries to accuracy marries to speed? Well—I was already one third of the way there.

"For accuracy, my view of him started slipping down again. He first told me that if I wanted to be accurate, I had to will, with my willpower, where I wanted the arrow to go. This seemed a bit voodoo to me, and with all the patience of the father he was, he had me doing the basics. I could will my arrow already, just as before I'd even joined the Order I was capable of swinging a sword—not very accurately, not with any power, but with training that had changed, and as I'd honed my ability to swing a sword, so too would I hone my will to guide my arrow's flight.

"He had me standing in the centre of this balcony and positioned four targets around me—one to my left, one to my right, one directly above my head, and one directly below my feet on the rocky ledges below. They were enormous targets with one fat red dot in their centres. Gelwin told me not to aim for the dots but to aim for the target—simply, he had me shooting up, left, down right. I had to hit the target to earn his satisfaction. As you can imagine, it wasn't hard. Even an untrained archer probably could have met his requirements.

"So I quickly turned surly and ungrateful again, the defiant youth that I was—I felt cheated, three steps forward and four steps back. For hours, that was all I was doing. I was perfecting the art of simply shooting a vertical compass. Then one day, Gelwin moved all the targets a pace to their right. I was no longer shooting in straight lines from my positions; the arrow paths had become diagonal. Again, he told me, I was to aim for the target, not the dot in the middle. If I hit the target, he was satisfied.

"And for months, this was how it went. I was to stand in the centre of this balcony, and my only objective was to hit the target, wherever it was. Gelwin moved all the targets like clockwork. Sometimes he placed them at different distances. He moved them close together. He spread them ridiculously far apart. Always, he told me, my objective was to hit the targets. When I finally lost patience and asked what in Oblivion I was really doing, he smiled that smile of his and told me: accuracy would come. Already it was coming. I could will my arrow anywhere I chose to—I willed my arrows to hit the targets, and so that was where they landed.

"I couldn't argue with his logic, but my resentment still brooded. I felt no closer to becoming a master archer than when I'd been half a year back, when all the initiates suffered in the library and their chores and the Pit of Pain together. I remember watching you and your many mentors, green with envy at how much you'd improved in the ways of the sword since last I'd seen you. But it only took a few sessions of watching you to realize just how much freedom Gelwin gave me with our training. When I wanted to rest, he let me rest. When I wanted to practice over what I knew, he had me practice, for hours or days, for as long as I wanted. I approached him intrigued about this, and he told me something else: all great warriors must have discipline, but it is ultimately up to them to perfect that. Teachers may show is meaning, as he and every other Blade in the Order had done, but it is the student's responsibility to embrace its essence. Gelwin no longer inflicted discipline upon me, for now it had become my value, and if I was to succeed in becoming a great warrior, I must achieve true independence and demonstrate discipline upon myself.

"This enlightenment began to change my attitude—slowly, at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I began to push myself. I was filled with this drive. I realized I could not be given the key to unlock the secret, I had to discover it for myself through hard work and disciplined learning. This began to show in my efforts. I no longer asked for as many rests, but every few days I asked Gelwin if we could run over everything I knew. Day by day, my mind was growing and developing into that of a man's, a warrior's. In the discovery and perfecting of my own discipline, I was becoming wiser, and my willpower was growing stronger with my desire to learn.

"And it so happened one day, quite thoughtlessly, I found the four targets, and with mechanical precision, shot a perfect bullseye in all of them. I'd been training for seven and a half months, and that was when Gelwin told me that I was ready to proceed to the next stage of my training.

"Again he repeated the erratic moving of targets, but my freedom to land my arrow anywhere in the target had been restricted; I was now to only aim for the red circle. This was done, from any distance, with such ease that I was amazed at myself. The week after that, the targets were replaced with smaller ones. The red target had grown smaller, too, but I was still to aim for it; he was not satisfied with anything less than four arrows in the red. As the targets grew smaller, it grew progressively more difficult, for Gelwin placed the targets high and low, near and far. Always, I had to strike the centre—and soon, I was always doing so. The targets continued to shrink, and I continued to deliver. In three weeks my targets had shrunk to the size of your fist, the red marks as large as your thumbnail, and I was putting arrows clean through them all."

Lio emitted a low whistle. "Accuracy learned, then?"

"Not quite. Like discipline, there was another mental lesson I had to learn, and that was faith in oneself. One day, Gelwin stood at the other end of the courtyard with a leaf between his fingertips. He told me to shoot it from his hand, and I was only to use one arrow. That order terrified me. If I missed, I fretted, I would wound him or kill him. He offered no words of comfort, only asked that I shoot. So I shot, and I missed. My arrow went very wide. He came to me, listened to my doubts, and asked me why I'd missed, when I was more than capable of meeting the target. I confessed I was afraid of hurting him, and he told me I was afraid of hurting another living being with my talent. That day I really got it into my head that I was being trained to kill, and more specifically, Gelwin was training me to kill with but one arrow. If I could meet the target, whatever its size and wherever its location, I was capable of killing with one shot. He gave me the rest of the day to meditate upon this. I found you afterward, remember? I asked you if you had actually thought about the killing side of things before."

A thoughtful gleam lit Lio's eye. "I do remember, yes," he said softly. "You were almost afraid, if I remember. Afraid to kill."

"I was not afraid of the act of killing," Nurr replied wisely, "but the action to make it so."

"We were skilled and talented and trained by the very best to be found in Tamriel, but we were still children, Nurr," Lio murmured. "The first kill is the hardest, yet it must be done, or it will mean the death of us. The purpose for all our time and efforts learning what we learnt was to integrate in ourselves that we were to live an existence killing creatures as dangerous and intelligent as we are. We could not think about the purpose; our body had to know it before our minds, and that takes many years of training."

Nurr chuckled. "You sound like Gelwin."

"Yes, that fellow, we should get back to him. And? The next day?"

"I stood on the balcony, and Gelwin repeated what he'd done yesterday. This time I hesitated over the shot, but I aimed, and I loosed my arrow—and took the leaf clean through the middle and pinned it to the door behind him. Gelwin was unhurt and proud. It had taken me eight months, but I had finally gained the ability to consistently place a perfect shot. That had been my original intention, and now it was mine to call my own. It was safe to say I was more than satisfied."

They'd spent long enough on the overlook, so Nurr led the way back into the Temple with intentions on entering its catacombs and visiting the dungeons. They would be bleak and neglected in their emptiness; it had been some time since last they'd housed a prisoner, dragon or man, though the cells had been designed for both. The initiates were all wearing rather bedraggled expressions at this point, all of them nursing bruises and bitter thoughts, and still Jor pitched them against each other. There was none better than the master-at-arms for giving the youngsters a taste of Blade discipline, Nurr thought with a wicked grin. _To teach us all how to become stubborn bastards._

"You never finished," said Lio. "You learned consistency. You learned accuracy. What about speed?"

They stepped underground into the firelit halls, and Nurr answered, "Speed was strange to attain. Gelwin could nock an arrow in half a mouse's heartbeat and still put the shot through the eye of a sparrow three hundred strides away. This he demonstrated to me; he couldn't help showing off a bit sometimes, I swear there's a bit in every Bosmer that never grows up. Again, I found his way of teaching speed to a marksman strange. I could already nock an arrow quite fast to the bowstring simply through the many months of practice, practice, practice I'd had, but nowhere near as fast as him. So he sat me down, and he had me visualize."

"What? Like, meditating?"

"Yes, visually. The first step to gaining speed is the hardest, but all the rest is a downward slope. All that remained once I'd learned how to draw my bow fast was gaining the confidence to shoot just as quickly, and accurately; in essence, tying the three rules of marksmanship together in his bonds of matrimony. He'd set up the straight stationary target across the courtyard, had me stand fifty paces in front of it, and visualize raising my bow, setting an arrow to the drawstring, pulling it back, releasing it. I'd grown considerably less argumentative since the discipline lesson, so this I did with marginally less protest. My respect for Gelwin had grown magnificently over the seasons I'd known him. So I visualized obediently like a good pupil, and under his spoken word, saw a mental shadow of myself drawing the bow faster and faster, my every arrow thudding smack-bang into the centre.

"That was the first day, which lasted only for the morning. I had the afternoon to myself, to unwind and meditate or practice, if I so chose to. The next day he had a counter with him—you know, like a metronome? He set it on the ground and it clicked at a perfectly ordinary pace. Now I visualized myself shooting my mental arrows at the target, but it was the way I found myself sending off my mental arrows that caught me by surprise. 'Sometimes one must go back to move forward,' Gelwin told me, because the exercise began with counting ten clicks for my mental arrow to be withdrawn from the quiver, set to the string, and fired. Then I counted nine clicks. Then eight. It really is quite remarkable how fast I found my mental self setting and loosing those arrows. It took several renditions of the exercise before I could time myself for that one-click limit to draw, knock, aim and loose.

"And only when I was comfortable with my visualizations did he allow me to try for real.

"Before I began training for speed, I was comfortable with my equipment. I could shoot a bullseye in four clicks of that counter. Now I was working my way to one click, and trust me, learning that was a lot harder than I thought. Gelwin understood. He honoured that little pearl of wisdom I said earlier and didn't have me shooting bullseyes as a requirement for his satisfaction with me; so long as I hit the target, he was happy.

"I was always anticipating that counter when it dropped below five. My nerves became jittery and several times I lost my focus. That, of course, led to frustration, because I knew I wasn't performing up to the standard I could. So I went back even further, and the speed lessons stopped for a short while; Gelwin again offered me counsel in my growing resentment of this part of learning. This was my third mental lesson, Lio; I'd learned discipline and self-belief, and as my body learned to draw a speed shot, my mind learned how to anticipate, and how to embrace it, and use it to strengthen us."

Nurr turned sharply down a stairwell that wound deeper beneath the Temple, to the cold blackness beyond that was Sky Haven's dungeons.

"So how did you learn anticipation?" wondered Lio. "I find it strange you learned it so late with your archery. One of the first things a good swordsman focuses on mastering is how he anticipates his opponent."

"In the Pit I learned how to judge someone's intention by the movement of their bodies—all initiates gain a sense of that, since nobody likes an extra bruising. But as an archer…it's instinctive, sure, but as a swordsman you don't need to think nearly as much as a marksman does. We are _always_ thinking. 'Sharp eyes, sharp wits, and sharp minds make a master,' as Gelwin used to say. I started to connect to this different, very mental feel of anticipation when I went back to shooting targets, but they were no longer stationary. He tossed squares of pine with a red mark in their centre, and within a week, no matter the height or the distance they were thrown at, I was fluently shooting bullseyes from the air. I'd successfully learned how to anticipate where they'd be, and where I needed to aim to gain a dead-centre strike.

"It grew harder. Without ever forewarning me, Gelwin began throwing up different targets, of different sizes, shapes and weights. Some fell faster than others. He tossed them up irregularly, sometimes two at once—those were the nasty ones, as I was yet to master speed—but sometimes I managed it with a pair of light-weighted targets. It was a challenge, but it did not take me long; he'd taught me well. This was the point when he brought Vaena into my training; she was well practiced in the magical arts, and proved admirable with her telekinetic abilities—she even trained Helena for a bit."

"Vaena…what did she do?"

"What she could. She levitated various objects and the game changed entirely. Now, quite the opposite of speed-shooting, I had to take my time, to _anticipate_ where the floating object next would be. Gelwin asked for centre shots, and he would not be satisfied until I provided him with them. And Vaena was good, as cunning as her husband. I actually missed the targets several times because I was too hasty in my judgement."

They'd come to the cells, to the little barred rooms where men could be placed, and the vast underground pit where dragons could be dragged in from the wilds and bound in capture, where archivists were free to study their anatomy, and Blades could draw information from their unwilling maws. _The Dragon Trench_ , that infamous place was named—its construction had been overseen by the Apprentice herself, and none of its draconic prisoners had ever escaped its hold alive.

"But of course you soon learned how to shoot even unpredictable floating targets from the sky," said Lio matter-of-factly. "I know because even after your blading, you were doing it to the actual creatures we've trained half our lives to hunt."

Nurr chortled. "Yes, I did—and when it became apparent I'd gained patience—the fourth mental lesson—from these exercises, he set me before the target again, and the counter was back, ticking. Now, armed with this new understanding of anticipation, I could prepare myself. I shot an arrow into the target in one click the first time I tried it."

"Impressive."

"I certainly thought so. It was like a miracle, especially when I learned that two of the counter's clicks were equal to one second—and what I'd really done was draw, knock, and loose in half a second." Nurr smiled proudly at the memory. "Gelwin knew of no archer that could shoot any faster than that."

"So you mastered speed at last."

"Yes. And then, coming up to the tenth month since I began training with Gelwin, our days were spent marrying the three together; consistency to accuracy to speed. Targets were set up, an obstacle course placed, and I was to make my way from one end of the courtyard to the other, and put centre shots in every one of those red circles before the sand in a twenty-second hourglass piled on the bottom. It wasn't until I began that course that I came to realize just how far Gelwin had taken me, and how much he'd taught me, in the marksmanship art. I only had to repeat the course four times before I was fluent." Nurr grinned at Lio. "Ten months. That was all Gelwin needed with me, to shape me into the equivalent of a master archer. But he said he was only responsible for half my accomplishments; I possessed natural talent, he told me, for only one with such that could have ever made it to the point I'd reached."

They came back out from the dungeons and made their way back into the main hall. "After that," Nurr went on, "Gelwin reassumed his full responsibilities as a Blade, and back into the field he went as a slayer. He was no longer my mentor, for he had nothing left to teach me; but when we could, we stole away into the surrounding wilderness for practice of a fifth mental lesson, precision, one that I would gain only through time and perseverance. He had exercises to help me with that. I needn't go into detail of what those days were like, but without them, I feel that my signature in dragonslaying would have been slightly different."

Lio's eyebrows went up again. "To me, that is a very strange thought. Since our first lair raid, that's been your signature. Gelwin taught you how to kill with one shot and make yourself a legendary slayer even among us—you know that he never really accomplished that? He liked to empty his quiver into the dragon before he cast the final blow through its eye?"

Nurr shrugged. "That was his choice. Easily he could have done what I do, ghost about the beast until he found his opportunity. But he valued honour much higher than I ever did, which is why I remain at the edge of notice, hidden in the shadows like a phantom, while he fought in the open. He would have had it no other way; and there wasn't. It was the end of him and his wife."

Lio slowly shook his head. "My gods, Nurr—you're definitely nostalgic this morning. What's done this to you? You've never spoken for so long about your past…granted, it's with the Order, but still…"

Nurr blinked. _No, I haven't._ But he suspected a reason just as quickly as he felt surprise. "A week ago Gelwin's only child almost died to a dragon I almost didn't kill in time—and unlike the other raids, I can't stop thinking about that one. Lotjoorkriid was different in so many ways…I guess Banviel's brush with death, and the pasts we shared on the way to the lair, brought back memories I couldn't so easily shake off or drown in ale."

Lio frowned suddenly. "Is that why you drink so much? To suppress the old times?"

Nurr turned away. "Only the ones I care not to remember." He sighed. "But as always, days and years blur together, what happened once we cannot change, what happens next we define with our every action."

"Well said, Nurrkha'jay."

His ears flicked up in surprise. "Emilyn."

They'd reentered the great hall, and she was making her way across it to them. The Grandmaster of the Blades Order did not appear to be alone.

"New blood?" guessed Lio, at the sight of three children hurrying in her wake.

Nurr cast a sidelong glance with his friend. "And just a few hours ago we were pitying our own."

"They've made their pact to us," Emilyn said, gesturing to the three children—two nervous boys just entering their teens, and one small girl who looked no older than ten. "One of our Brothers performing observations in the westhold settlement of _Krentuld_ has returned to us. The village was sacked by wolves, and these children lost their families to them."

Nurr sighed. "Orphans," he muttered. _As if there aren't enough in the world already…_

"They had nowhere else to go, of course," Emilyn concluded. "All three show promise." She gave both stern looks. "You may still be wondering why I'm speaking to you about this. These children come from fighting families, and all have experience with certain weapons, and show skills in such well suited to your own. Lionus, assess the two boys. They know how to handle a sword but I want to know just how well, and if one would be well suited for you to mentor. Nurrkha'jay…"

Nurr didn't need her to say. "The girl's an archer, isn't she?"

Emilyn nodded. "The Blade who brought them here praised her talent with the bow."

At first glance Nurr had thought the child timid; but when he looked at her again with this new revelation in mind, he was surprised at how differently he saw her. She was small and slight, but there was depth in her eyes not normally seen in those her age. They were blue and bright, gleaming from a pale face fringed with hair black as jet. Intrigued, he dropped to one knee and beckoned her closer, and she came looking particularly nervous at the sight of him. _Not surprising,_ Nurr thought gruffly, _I threw aside my sweet kitten face when I first discovered dragons were real._ He took her hands and turned them over. The fingers were calloused in all the right places, and the wiry arms were strong.

This was promising indeed; in the past five years three initiates had approached him claiming they wanted to make the bow their primary weapon. As the Order's best archer, Nurr had considered them, but ultimately refused. The three had shown potential, but there seemed something lacking about them. He'd referred them on to some other archers in the Order, the ones who used both bow and sword; it took a certain kind of marksman to make the bow his primary dragonslaying weapon, in the face of whatever peril ensued in lair raids.

 _But there is something about this girl._ Thoughtful now, Nurr looked into her eyes. "Are you afraid of me, child?" he rasped.

The girl blinked quickly. "A little."

Nurr chuckled to himself. _Well, no surprise there._

"Don't be afraid of our dear Nurr," Lio told her cheerfully. "I'm sure one day you'll come to love our sullen dragonslaying prodigy."

"So it's true, then?" one of the boys piped up. "You really are dragonslayers…"

Nurr looked past the girl with a frown. _Every new initiate is like this,_ he remembered. _To them we are a story come real._

Lio answered him. "The Blades once served as protectors of the Dragonborn—those with the Dragon Blood," he told them, "but our existence began in Akavir, as a group of warriors dedicated to the eradication of dragons. Their crusade eventually led them to Tamriel, where they pursued the hunt. The Dragonguard, our predecessors were named; and in this Era, with a Dragonborn unworthy to serve, who once almost saw the end of our Order entirely, we assume the role of the Dragonguard come anew. In secret, the crusade against the beasts continues, and every year, every victory we achieve, we grow stronger."

He knelt and placed his two hands upon the boys' shoulders. "Now, as initiates of the Blades Order, you will join our crusade. We will train you to kill the world's most dangerous creatures. Train hard and study well, and one day you will become dragonslayers."

Nurr turned back to the girl. She'd listened to every word, and her nervousness had mounted to greater heights.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She stumbled over it. "R-Raegim."

"And how old are you?"

"Ten, s-sir."

Strangely enough, Nurr found he liked her, which he'd never done with any initiate before. "Emilyn," he said, "she shows the right kind of potential."

The Grandmaster nodded. "Then she's yours, Nurrkha'jay. They will begin training tomorrow, but she will spend as much time under your eye as Jor's and begin honing her potential right away. It's time to assume Gelwin's mantle."

So she'd been thinking about him as well. Nurr smiled to himself and climbed to his feet. "Still afraid of me, Raegim?"

"Yes." She said it in an embarrassed sort of way. "I've…never seen a Khajiit before."

Lio laughed at that. "Nobody's seen a Nurrkha'jay before."

Raegim was bewildered. "What does he mean?"

Nurr chuckled. "You'll understand soon enough." Gelwin had indeed trained him well; now at last he was to become what the Bosmeri dragonslayer had been to him. _Days and years blur together, what happened once we cannot change, what happens next is our choice. Our Order has survived for thousands of years, and we will survive for thousands more, built on the bodies, sweat and blood of the people who make it, generation after generation of warrior to uphold the mantle of he who came before._

 _Sixteen years I've been a part of this legacy. No regret. I've never had any regret. And that is how my Brothers and Sisters will remember me; not as the dragonslayer who kills with one arrow, but a Blade who was placed upon this path of bloodshed and secrecy and never looked back._

 **d|b**


	23. XXII - On the Trail of Blood

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

Some days ago—Chase had quite forgotten how many—Amos spotted a dragon feeding in the marshes a mile or two south of the westhold settlement _Ofanaat_. He hadn't engaged, for the man like so many tended to avoid dragons when he could. Chase was not a man nor possessed that same wisdom.

She was no expert on dragons, but as a beast of the wilds she knew well enough that they prized their territory as much as the next predator, and would defend it with their lives if necessary. The wild dragons especially kept closely to their patch of soil and sky, so it only stood to conclusion that the dragon Amos had seen had a lair somewhere nearby.

And she was going to find it.

She'd stolen away in the hours of dawn that morning, easily evading the sentries who never knew how to look for her while she wore her wolven skin, and found her way to the river by sunrise. From there it was easy to follow it to the treacherous marshes of the dragonhold _Wergevild_ , what mortal men called the west. The settlement _Ofanaat_ she tasted on the wind; the acrid stench of smoke, dens of processed timber and human waste were clear indications. As the sun climbed higher into the sky and dragonsong became all the more prominent in the wilds, Chase stalked the riverbank, searching for but a whiff of her prey.

That was hard; she'd rarely uncovered such scents, as they rarely landed outside their lair and so almost never placed a mark of their existence upon the dirt. All Chase had to go on was the marshes, reeking of a thousand and twenty other things, and the presumption that Amos had been telling the truth. Still, dragons were nothing to lie about, of that much she had confidence in.

Gramu would be angry with her; he already was, she remembered. Days ago he'd forbidden her from a night's hunt and she'd still departed and hunted gloriously beneath the shine of the twin moons. He'd been angry at her return, looked down at her for her defiance and obvious lack of self-control, but what could he do? Chase couldn't believe it had taken her so long to remember that.

Throughout her blind pursuit of the dragon, she brooded on what her alpha had told her. _If I fail to find something that will unite the packs, the White Sun will be slaughtered. They are at war for fury at the desecrations the_ krag-nalihr _have done to them, and the other side is going to wake up and start fighting back. When they do…_

Of all ways to die in the world, the one wolves feared above all was by fire—and fire was all the world had become since the dragons' rise a century ago. For fear of the flame, the wolves had withdrawn into the shadows of the forest, losing their courage and their freedom, their hunting grounds shared with that of the beasts. In the nighttime, while the dragons slept or hunted with weakened sight, packs preyed and fed in their shadows.

Since the old wars between dragon and men had ended, and the Fifth Era was proclaimed in a terrible fanfare by the conquerors, wolves had hidden and survived, not lived.

 _No more,_ Chase sensed. _Four hundred seasons' worth of bitterness has ignited in the wolves of the west. It will not take long for that to spread, for the other packs to begin to wage a war with all the world as well—but individually, divided, they will all be slaughtered._

If all that Lupa and Shirju had told her was true—and of that she found no doubt—then a gathering of the packs was the only thing that held any hope for a fair fight. Like the mortal races, there were many kinds of her people that lived in many different ways, and their individual customs ultimately made for all their kin a stronger existence. The eight great packs were embodied by eight ancient wolven families, known for their vast size and long life, that had existed in Skyrim alone since the first men appeared upon the province. The Pack of the White Sun was but one of them.

She knew the other packs through the stories the she-wolf who reared her had told. The especially spiritual Pack of the Rain Sky dwelled in the autumnwood with pelts of silver, gold and brown, and it was whispered they worshipped and praised not only Lupa as their goddess mother. In the southernmost mountains of Skyrim dwelled the Pack of the Ice Wind, skilled climbers and swift trackers, invisible to even the dragons' eyes with their hides of purest white. The infamous wolves of the Black Fire pack stalked the stern, unyielding mountains that fringed the easthold; dark of hair and spirit, it was said, for these were beasts that knew neither love nor forgiveness, and remained the only pack bold enough to face fire when it came. Those of the Dusk Bane lived in the abandoned lonehold to the north, where in their isolation from men they were free to practice the traditions of their kind, live with little fear, and swell their numbers, checked only by the raging appetites of _krag-nalihr_. The Stone Foot pack dwelled in the stonehold, its brown- and gray-pelted wolves grown agile and nimble from generations of pursuing their main prey, sure-footed goats, throughout the highlands. The Pack of the Fleet Moons resided in the golden grasslands of the midhold, and had grown so fast that it was believed they could sprint as fast as a dragon could fly. Finally, there were those of the Old Moss; the wolves of the greenwood. There were many guarded tales about that infamous pack and their dealings with embodiments of Earth Magic.

The eight were all fiercely independent of the other—but what Chase had suggested unto her troubled alpha, and what she somehow intended to persuade him to do, was something that had not occurred for generations beyond count. The great packs had not set aside their differences and pride to join together in the face of a common threat in Eras. What threats ensued around them were never directed at them, but at the world of men, of whom they thought nothing of. And for eight to become one was no idle idea; the title of alpha was won in blood and strength, each having slain the one who came before him. For any pack, there had to be an alpha, but for one pack, there must be only one alpha, and so for eight to become one, there could and must be only one to lead them— _targhalis'lupu_ , the Blood Father, or _targhalis'lupa_ , the Blood Mother; for she-wolves became alphas as well, if they succeeded in slaying their predecessor in fair challenge.

If the packs agreed to unite then an alpha of blood, _targhalis'raghal_ , had to be found. As allowed among their pack, any wolf could offer itself as worthy of the title; they only had to prove themselves to earn it. Those who sought to be named _targhalis'raghal_ were most commonly alphas already named among their kin; for to become _targhalis'raghal_ one had to defeat every alpha of the packs in one bloody contest for power—this fight was only different in that no challenger was to be killed, only subdued. When whatever threat ended and the packs disbanded once more, alphas still needed to lead them.

 _But if we are to survive what is to come, we must be united,_ Chase thought restlessly, yet again. Shirju's grim words echoed once more in her ears. _"Some_ thing _, not some_ one _, must unite the packs, and I fear that only you, the hunter of hunters, are capable of discovering this—the answer may not lie in the world of wolves but in that of men."_

In the days that passed she struggled to unravel the riddle—she told none of her alpha's reasons for finding her, saying it was well beyond their petty human understanding. Now Chase believed to have found it. _The packs will unite under a show of unprecedented power; show them that_ krag-nalihr _can be killed by wolves. If one hunter alone can devour a beast of fire, imagine what eight great packs could achieve._

A rally—that was what was needed. Shirju could not provide it, for he was old and his years were growing upon him. The other packs in their pride would not suggest it. But a sister who lived apart, who had the freedom of two worlds…perhaps there was a chance she could bring it about.

Or at least, this was the conclusion she had drawn.

 _It was hinted, by Lupa and_ az'raghal _,_ Chase thought with a frown. _A bloody destiny was what my goddess mother said I'd made for myself; and Shirju himself told me that I could become a great_ raghal _one day._

A frustrated snarl lit her lips. _If I can find this dragon at all._

The sun was reaching its height, and she still had found nothing. Wading through the thick marshes with peat under her claws and a gnawing hunger in her stomach, Chase was growing angry. At last she could take no more of this aimless dawdling; she pulled free of the muck and sprinted from the marshes for the need of rough earth and coarse grass beneath her once more. The open soon greeted her and she mounted the nearest hill to its pinnacle, the wind cool in her pelt and the sun warm on her back. Her senses sharpened, and Chase reared with jaws apart, tasting the scents that rode upon the unbroken breeze. _No dragon would want to dwell in those thick marshlands,_ she reasoned, _where their very thoughts become clouded with that foul murk._

The grassy peak provided an excellent viewpoint of the surrounding land. Chase let her senses roam. She saw the river winding southwest towards the stonehold, glimpsed the winding road that wound past the bandit camp. When she turned her head to the north she saw a stretch of silver that made the horizon as the lands became the abandoned lonehold, where the last mortal settlement had been destroyed long ago in the great purge. _The den may be there,_ Chase thought, a soft growl rumbling in her throat. _Miles are minutes to a dragon; the lair could be much further than I originally anticipated._

But if she was to run all the way through the lonehold and return to the camp at dusk, she needed air in her lungs and fuel in her stomach. She first had to hunt.

Chase began to descend the hill—slowly, her snout pressed to the earth, eyes half-closed. In this way she could absorb the story of the wilderness, gain a sense of what animals had passed by here recently, what creatures were her prey. The camp was only a few miles away, and this dirt she still knew well. It was a favourite travelling route for elk coming south from the frostbitten lonehold in search of grass and greenery. After a little while her pace quickened; she'd caught a scent, an elk doe with a fawn. The scent of her milk was deeply enticing, and the hunger yawned greater in her soul.

For an hour or so she tracked it towards the border; the elk was leading her fawn into the isolation of the lonehold, perhaps in the hopes of evading the hunters' attention long enough for her infant to attain independence of her. Chase stretched her legs and ran. _Shay'k-sh'aghar_ , the wolves had called her, and in broad daylight and attention of the dragons she would prove how she earned her name. _Nothing can outrun me while I am like this,_ she thought savagely, the beating of her heart matching the pounding of her paws upon the blurred grass beneath her. She could outrun a horse; everyone in her pack; she even wondered if she could exceed the stride of the Fleet Moons wolves, the swiftest of all their kin—

A vast shadow swept over her, blinding her. Chase's head snapped up and her jaws parted in a snarl of amazement; the dragon disappeared over the ridge, wings snapping together as it plunged like a hawk to the ground. From the unseen plains beyond there came a shrill bray of alarm.

Chase skidded to a halt. The ground fell away suddenly in a small landslide, revealing a broad dale and, a half-mile beyond, the ruins of an old man fort. The prey she'd been following had been down upon the grass, grazing cautiously beneath the shadows of some twisted young pines, but she'd come too late. The dragon, on perfectly silent wings, had located them first, and in two thrusts of its head had killed both fawn and mother.

Chase's lip curled. _The instant I turn my attention from pursuing the monster, it presents itself like a gift from the Huntsman—and steals my prey._ No wonder her pack was so bold against the beasts; her fury at the injustice of her stolen kill demanded exertion. She faced the dragon and roared with the voice of the wild.

It turned at her cry, and for a moment hunter stared at hunter. Chase had no idea what the names of the individual species were, or where each was concentrated most, but she could tell this one wasn't a common kind, for she'd never seen anything like it before. Previous dragons she'd seen were brawny horned creatures with scales like plate over their thick bodies and skulls adorned with all kinds of crests and growths. This creature she'd encountered was none of that; a sleek, slender form coloured blue-gray, with broad curved wings and a snake-like head. There were long webbed spines down its back and a ridged tail as long and thin as a whiplash. There was not a single horn on its narrow head, and its jaw protruded beneath its lip in a prominent underbite, displaying a hint of its needle-thin incisors.

The creature inhaled in one prolonged serpentine hiss, arching its long silver throat. Its slit-like nostrils flared. Then it whispered, " _Mungrohiik_ ," in a tone that spelled disdain in any language.

Chase snarled. _Name me in your tongue, then; I'll name you in mine._ " _Krag-nalihr_ ," she spat.

The dragon reared, flared its wings and howled, and though Chase flinched in instinctive anticipation of an elemental attack, she recovered and harked a challenge. She sprang into the dale, her hunger forgotten in a tide of bloodlust and battle-anger, and as she faced the beast she drew its scent into her glands. _So this is what its stench is like_. It was most unusual; the salt of the sea, the ash of fire and the sharpness of frost was all mingled into one particularly peculiar smell she was not to forget so soon.

Yet even as Chase advanced, fangs bared and talons gouging deep marks into the stony earth, the dragon recoiled with a frustrated mutter and snatched the fallen elk doe in its dagger-like fangs. Its wings flared open, sending a flurry of dirt and grit into Chase's eyes. She recoiled with a snarl and a furious revelation. _The dragon's trying to escape!_ She would not be so humiliated! Blinking hard, she lurched forward towards the swiftly-rising shape, and at the peak of her speed she left the ground and stretched her body in a skyward lunge.

Her jaws closed around the dragon's leg, and Chase bit hard, down to its bone.

The dragon gave one agonized shriek, muffled around the prey in its mouth, and for a moment it lost momentum in its ascent as it tensed in pain. Chase took opportunity of the moment, reaching one long forearm up to carve a great wound on its underside. Again the dragon screamed, flailing; it began to plunge towards the earth, but at the last moment recovered and swept for the sky once more. Chase fought for grip. Dragon blood was in her mouth, fuelling her lust to kill; but the world flipped abruptly, and suddenly there was nothing under her. She writhed in the air, glimpsed the dragon gaining crooked height far above her, twisted and saw the ground rising to meet her—then the impact. The force of it jarred her bones and knocked the breath from her lungs, and sent a ringing in her head that seemed to go on and on. At last Chase found the strength to climb back to her feet, but the moment had passed, the chance lost as the dragon made its escape into the sky.

Gasping in frustration, Chase pushed herself onto her hind legs, glowering at the disappearing speck. Even injured, it flew with great speed. _I have only wounded the prey,_ she thought, angry at herself. _I did not succeed in killing it myself. I've only driven it back to its lair. A dishonourable hunt._ Her eyes turned to the elk's dead fawn. It was a mouthful the dragon hadn't bothered taking, and though she had not been the one to end its life, she needed sustenance; the fall had greatly exhausted her. She solemnly thanked Lupa that she had not broken any bones.

She lurched over to the fawn and feasted quickly, regaining her strength with every mouthful. It was nothing to quell her hunger, but for now it was enough to give her energy once more. Yet though the elk's life's crimson passed over her tongue and turned her teeth scarlet, the familiar taste searing through her senses, the memory of the dragon's blood was still sharply profound.

 _I wounded it badly when I did,_ she thought, swiftly cleaning her muzzle. _Blood cannot fly. It can only fall…I wonder…_

There were a few dark spots on the grass near her. Chase sauntered to it, sniffing. _It's its blood. Dragon blood._ Her teeth itched in the memory—the dragon's scales had felt like leather on her tongue and torn like it with her claws. _Blood cannot fly outside its host. It will have left a trail for me to follow—and I have driven it back to its lair._ Excitement stirred in her. _The hunt is not yet over. Indeed, it has only just begun._

On winged paws she began the pursuit.

The dragon was fast, but its blood had fallen faster; Chase found spots of blood splattered upon the earth, floating in stagnant pools as she passed the fringe of the swamp. The trail became erratic, as though the prey sensed it was being followed, and desperately tried to mislead it. Each crimson mark she found upon the ground bore a hint of a tale; the dragon was tiring quickly. Its lair could not be far.

Chase tracked her quarry so far north that the grass became slick with frost, which thickened. She was far into the lonehold now, travelling towards the shore; there was a faint tang of salt in the air. The spots of blood grew bigger and more frequent; the dragon's flight had slowed with its growing weariness, until at last Chase slid down a bank and found a large red stain in the snow, which had recently been disturbed. The dragon had landed, and the heavy prints in the white wound into the wide mouth of a cave that appeared to lead underground.

More cautiously, Chase advanced. _So this is the lair._ Scents came flooding outside into the frosty air, overwhelming her senses. _It's definitely inside. It reeks of dragon, old and fresh._ She fell completely silent and strained her ears, and heard the dragon's rasping breaths echoing from within.

Chase flexed her claws, teeth itching furiously. _It's mine. The kill is mine. The dragon weakens from its wound…_

Yet something stopped her. A sudden thought.

 _What was it I told my alpha when he came to me? "We find strength in number and in companionship, and through this we may succeed against even the_ krag-nalihr _." I spoke to him of brotherhood, of unity. We wolves of the pack know these words as well as we know ourselves in the hunt._ She looked more impatiently at the lair. _I show none of that if I go inside and kill the dragon alone; a demonstration of my power and strength that will win respect, but not their loyalty._

 _I cannot kill this dragon._ Frustration swept through her, and she turned away. _Not yet, and not alone. I am but one in the pack—to fight our enemy, I must fight in a pack._ _These other wolves will only learn to trust me that way, if trust can ever be gained from them._

She began to run once more, and she ran back south, with a new plan forming in her mind. She had enough strength to see her back to the camp tonight—that would do. _So I won't kill the beast alone. Dragons are well-known for their hoarding of treasures and artifacts that sparkle in the sun; and the clan is in need of another heist. They're growing restless again. Nobody's passed by on the road for weeks._

It was perfect—so perfect Hircine himself must have placed his blessing upon it.

It was dusk when Chase at last returned. One fluid leap over the barricade, and that was all the energy she could spare. Her skin began to tingle as she commenced the change, and she sank to her knees with a sigh as her bones morphed and moulded into a human skeleton, and her claws became fingernails, fangs into teeth.

It was the sound of running feet that prompted Chase to dash to her bedroll, where she'd left her human coverings. She was still pulling them on when Estilde appeared, eyes gleaming with anger.

"You are in deep shit now," she growled.

Chase grinned. "Hello, Tilda. How's the hand?"

Estilde glared at that, and her unbound fist clenched. "Gramu wants to speak to you."

"I know he does," Chase replied, "and anyway, I want to speak to him." She finished dressing and stood, feeling a little strange once more balanced on two flimsy feet after so long racing across the holds on four.

"What could a dog like you want to talk to Gramu about?"

Chase's countenance darkened at once. She turned slowly to Estilde, the smile gone from her face. _No more of this. No more. Not from anyone, and especially not from you._ She held the Nord woman's challenging stare for just a moment—then lunged, so fast that Estilde was caught off-guard, much in the same way she must have been when Shirju set her in her place.

"Name me that again," Chase snarled, an iron grip around Estilde's healing wrist, "and you will lose this."

Estilde gasped with pain. "Gods—let go, let _go!_ "

It brought peculiar satisfaction to hear the proud, hard-hearted warrior beg so desperately. Chase took her time in doing so. The instant she did Estilde staggered away, pressing her injury against her chest with muffled curses.

"I have a suggestion for him he might be interested in, that all of you might be," the hunter among hunters answered. "And something tells me he isn't going to refuse."

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: There's been snippets of wolf language across the last few Chase chapters - here might be a good time to elaborate on those words you've read. I haven't done a Tolkien and developed an entire comprehensible language - much as I'd like to - but a few words and phrases in an original wolf tongue can't hurt, right?**

 **Here's the translations for what you've come across:**

 **Raghal = _alpha  
_ Az'raghal = _my alpha [a title of respect used by lesser wolves, similar to 'my lord' used by lesser men]  
_ Shirju-az'raghal = _Shirju my alpha  
_ Shay/shagh = _hunter/hunters  
_** **Shay'k-sh'aghar = _hunter among hunters  
_ Targhalis = _blood  
_ Targhalis'raghal = _blood alpha/alpha of blood  
_ Lupu/lupa = _father/mother  
_ Aji = _pup [may act as a suffix to ends of names, dictating age status, or as a term of endearment]  
_ Jah/ju = _adult female/adult male [formal suffix to ends of names, dictating age status, though names may vary from formal structure]  
_ Rassak = _chase, chasing, to chase  
_** **Krag-nalihr = _dragons [literally means 'sky-eaters']_**


	24. XXIII - Out of Darkness

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

In and out of darkness he sauntered. Sometimes he saw a light, but whenever he drew near it, cold shadow dragged him back. The voices that grew clearer were only sounds meant to betray him, for it was only silence he found when he turned to listen. He was afraid of the light, for there was pain. He was afraid of the darkness, for beyond it was a terrible abyss into which he feared to fall.

And still he struggled, to two ends he was scared to reach. He rose and fell. His senses regained and lost ability. Focus slipped away like water through the cracks. Time had no place in this existence. The light hurt, the lightlessness was eternal, and still he wavered.

Then once he surged on a great tide, and he was thrust into the light, and everywhere there was pain and an explosion of clarity that lasted for one breathless instant; a slur of sound he could not make sense of, a terrible agony that _burned_ , a flare of soothing golden, and then he withdrew once more into the peaceful shadows and the pain faded.

And as he did before, he sauntered in and out of darkness.

The tides began to grow heavier, and each rise and descent became a struggle. It became harder to wander so freely as he did. A parting was taking place. He had to choose. He did not want to, but he could no longer cling to both. He let go of one, and though he was frightened at first, he willingly embraced his choice, in one precipitous decision.

He returned to the light and to the pain.

And there was neither.

The first thing he remembered was his name. His world was dark but not quiet. After a little while the muffled sounds he heard sharpened. He became aware of temperature, hot and cold, something remarkably heavy was pushing him upon something soft. His eyes were closed, and for a moment he hesitated; what was he to see if he dared to look?

But Pyrus was tired of being in darkness. Gingerly, for he remained uncertain, he opened his eyes.

At first it was so bright it dazzled him; it passed quickly, however. Candles hovered above his head; he recognized the way the little flames flickered. They were on a chandelier, and a chandelier could only be hung from a ceiling—so he had to be on his back, staring up. There was something shockingly cold upon his brow. Its weight was leaden, but not in a way that hurt.

Breath was a labour. He felt an echo of pain on his right, a tenacious pressure being applied to his ribs and lung. Pyrus flicked his eyes downward; furs covered him. They were not terribly heavy things, to memory, yet they pressed upon him, holding him down—or had he lost all strength? His mind began to clear its shroud of weariness as one by one the rest of his senses improved; there had been fire, and burning; a Dragonlord with lashes of flame, the blaze of the storm, a wave that had crashed upon him and broken through his defense…that had been the beginning of his defeat. Lances had followed…spearing him…and the surge of red and gold had ended him.

 _So even I thought._ Pyrus turned his head. He was not outside in the snow. He recognized this room. It was his own. He was in the College. _And I am not dead—but Vylornar intended to make it so. Is it sheer luck that I survived the storm? Or did he let me live?_

He closed his eyes and sighed, grimacing as an ache flushed under his skin. _He succeeded over me—I was a damned fool and I paid for it with whatever dignity I'd ever had._

"Pyrus?"

A voice sounded close by, and one he recognized; he looked to his left, with some difficulty, and someone he hadn't noticed before rose suddenly from where she'd been seated at his desk. "Brangwen?" he whispered, vaguely confused. _This isn't her room…_

"Pyrus!" She was at his side with dizzying speed. "You've woken up! Thank whatever gods you hold dear. Even I was starting to doubt you'd ever wake again…"

He was bewildered as to all she'd said, but for now that could wait. He tried to move, to sit up, but no part of him was willing to respond, and aches grasped his midsection so fiercely he fell back with a gasp. "Don't move," Brangwen said swiftly, her amber eyes positively dancing with anxiety. She placed a heated hand upon his shoulder. "Lie still. Your body still needs time to adjust…you've been asleep for a long time, you need to give yourself a chance to reconnect to the physical world." Her hand went to his forehead and lifted the source of the cold weighing upon his skin; a damp cloth. Her warm palm took its place. "Your fever's broken, but it nearly claimed you even after your burns were treated."

Pyrus was slow to process. "How long?" he rasped. "How long have I been asleep?"

Brangwen hesitated. "A fortnight," she answered at last. "It's the fifteenth of Last Seed."

 _Fourteen sunrises since Vylornar left Winterhold…fourteen sunrises I spent fighting for my life._ It was a struggle he'd won, but he took little pride in. _If I'd succeeded against Vylornar, I never would have needed to suffer this._

"I thought I was dead," he confessed, because it was Brangwen beside him, and he had to tell someone the troubles circling darkly in his mind.

"I think Vylornar thought so as well," the Bosmer mage answered quietly. "Even I did…but I could hear you breathing, just a little, struggling for every one of them. What that Dragonlord had done to you…Pyrus, what in Nirn were you thinking?" Her tone sharpened with disbelief. "Facing Vylornar himself? He's the most powerful pyromancer in the world! You could never have won that fight."

Pyrus closed his eyes and didn't answer that. "Water," he whispered instead.

He heard her sigh, disappear from his bedside and return a few heartbeats later. He proved too weak to raise a hand to take the cup, or even lift his head from the pillow, so she held both and tipped the cool, clear liquid down his throat. This small act drained him of what small energy he'd mustered, and Pyrus sank back, unnerved at how weak he was. _If there ever was a fire in my soul, the fight has near extinguished it; it feels as if only one glowing ember remains of it, and throughout my sleep I was forever fighting to ignite it._

"Tell me what happened," he murmured once he could speak again. "When Vylornar left me for dead."

"I found you. I heard your scream from the College, but I was barely halfway across the bridge when Vylornar cast his firestorm. By the time I descended the last of the stairs you were lifeless on the ground and he was walking away." Brangwen closed her eyes and emitted a shaky sigh. "You seemed dead, but…you weren't, not yet, but you were barely alive. Some of my colleagues found me, and we carried you back into the College. Our restoration master did his best, but…" Here she hesitated again.

Pyrus narrowed his eyes. "But what?"

"Pyrus…what happened to you was your fault, so not many were prepared to try and save you."

He expected anger at this, and he suspected so did she…but curiously enough, he felt nothing. "Go on," he prompted.

Brangwen seemed surprised at his calm response, but she obliged. "They looked after you for five days…but after that, they turned away. They stopped trying. The burns, they said, would kill you eventually. The restoration master's talents probably saved your life in those first crucial days, but he was the one who told me to…to let you die."

 _Their faith in me is truly inspiring._ "But you didn't," Pyrus mused softly.

Brangwen looked away. "I couldn't."

"Why?"

Pyrus turned to her with a slight frown. "Why didn't you do as they did, and let me die?"

She brooded on her answer. "You and I…as students we studied together. I've known you longer than anyone else in the College. I disagree with many of your views and our magic interests lead us in two completely different directions but…that's no reason to give up like they did. The College masters believed it best the recklessness you demonstrated that day was the end of you…but I didn't."

She sighed. "I studied restoration with a passionate interest in my youth—but it took every ounce of my skill to help your body heal, and stabilize you when fever struck. Your wounds were close to mortal. A bit of you was…gone entirely."

"No need to be tactful," Pyrus told her. "I'm well aware of the damage the firelance did to me." He thought of that wound now—healing or healed, surely, as it was no longer preventing him from drawing breath, but never before had breath been so exhausting.

"Firelance?" Brangwen whispered.

He closed his eyes and saw it in his mind—a shaft of flame as concentrated as the heart of a fireball, as hot as lightning, piercing his body and burning a bloody hole between his ribs. "That's what it was. Vylornar could control projected flame and manipulate it in so many more ways than I ever learned. I can command the flight of fireballs—he sculpted fire into…anything. Whips. Waves. I glimpsed…that fight was but a glimpse of his true potential. I never imagined such mastery of fire possible…"

"You underestimated Vylornar, as countless have done before you," Brangwen breathed, "and those countless have died to him. You are lucky not to be among them."

Pyrus heard her and agreed. He'd read of Vylornar's exploits throughout history, one of the most infamous being his single-handed destruction of Great House Redoran. In the fifth year of the Fifth Era, after Alduin's reign over Tamriel had been assured and the first Dragonlords began their rise to power, the five Great Houses of the Dunmeri populace convened to discuss how to best combat the risen dragons. Such was the danger that hortators, the elected voice of an entire Great House, had been selected, but this proved to be their folly, for they made the decision to rally an army from among all five of the Great Houses and drive the dragons from Morrowind. Somehow it reached their enemy's attention before this plan was ever put into proper motion, and it was learned the hortator of Great House Redoran had been the one to have been so bold as to suggest this traitorous notion. In quiet retaliation, the World-Eater sent Vylornar, who only recently had been bestowed the title of Dragonlord, to 'treat' with the Grand Council and attempt to dissuade their intentions.

When negotiations inevitably failed, Vylornar withdrew from the Council, but only long enough to acquire information on every single member of Great House Redoran in Tamriel—and burned his way into the racial history of Morrowind's people by destroying every man, woman and child associated with that House. It was done so inconceivably fast, and with such precision, that the Great House was vanquished before anything could be done to aid them. In its aftermath, Vylornar then warned the remaining Great Houses that the fate of the Redoran would await them and their families all if they ever considered rebelling against their overlord again, and ever since, Morrowind had been but another province docile to the World-Eater's heartless rule.

What made this fragment of ashen history so infamous was that Dunmer were the people most resilient to flame—and that had proved for nothing when one unaccompanied Dragonlord of Alduin utterly destroyed the ageless Great House Redoran in but a few short days. Countless more tyrannies followed, but the Redoran Torch, as history remembers it, was still considered by many scholars as Vylornar's most notorious and foremost demonstration of his power and loyalty to the cause he served—and how far he'd turned from his fellow mortals in favour of serving those immortal.

 _And I respected him. I wanted to learn to be like him._ Unashamedly, Pyrus recounted these former desires—former, for they were no longer. _I was blinded with my own despise for my half-blood heritage, so determined to sate my hunger for knowledge in the art of the flame, that I was prepared to believe anything if I willed it and tried hard enough._

He shook his head at his own stupidity. _A boy's ambition. A boy's recklessness. A boy's foolish dream. I cherish my Altmer half but my human side remains whatever I do, and defies me as much as I defy it. The dragons would never have accepted me among their number. Never._

"Pyrus," Brangwen murmured, and her gentle touch drew him from his blackening thoughts. "What made you fight him? Really? What did he do that angered you to such…"

"…impulsiveness? Foolishness? Naivety?" Pyrus finished. "I took anger at the way he'd treated me, and that anger overwhelmed my every sensible thought—a very human trait I never learned to control. My judgement was lost, and I was desperate to redeem myself. The things I said to you, I believed every word with a childish ignorance." He looked away. Vylornar had humbled him well. "Not once did I stop to think. Brangwen…if any friendship ever existed between us, what I will say next will end that; I wanted to join them. I wanted to become a Dragonlord and learn from them all their secrets of fire."

The silence that followed filled him with fierce shame.

"And do you still?" Brangwen asked at last.

Pyrus did not even try to divine what emotion she felt to his confession. "No. The dragon cause is as perfidious as it is powerful. Never again will I look to them in the way I did."

A small smile touched Brangwen's lips, which met his forehead in a formal elven gesture of friendship. "Why did I save you, you asked earlier? Before, I feared your growing ambition would either destroy you or cast you on the same twisted path Vylornar walks, and many of the College shared my fears; but now I see that there is good in you still. That is why I saved you. Pyrus…" She turned his averted eyes so he stared into her own. "I know you hate your parentage, and you despise being a half-blood. But if I've noticed anything about the Altmer is that many of them have the tendency to become heartless; not all of them are, but the natural ferocity of their pride often leads to that…and I feared, many feared, that elven pride would be the death of you. That half of you wants to lose its sensitivity, but the human half preserves it, and that is what I've always admired about you. Yes, you shun your human blood, but I cherish it more than I do your elven."

"Why?" muttered Pyrus, unexpectedly bitter. "You're no human. Why should you care?"

"I'm Bosmer by blood, but I've lived among humankind all my life, and I've always marveled at how emotionally sensitive they can become, if they so choose to be. They understand love like no other creature."

"I care not for love."

"Only those who've never known it say that."

Pyrus had no answer to give.

His strength had risen throughout the conversation, but it was far from returned. However, he was tired of lying down. With Brangwen's assistance he sat up in his bed, though even this simple action was harried by his wounds, and he found himself short of breath and throbbing after the strenuous effort. His bare skin stung in the cold air as the heavy furs slid from his shoulders. Brangwen left him briefly to gather some medicine she'd been preparing on his desk, and her sudden absence meant Pyrus now had to suspend himself in an upright sitting position alone. The abruptly realized effort sent a spasm of pain through him, and instinctively he pressed one hand against its source.

And froze at what he felt.

Slowly, he looked down, his weariness forgotten in a queer feeling that passed through him in that moment. There were no bandages, and so he could not mistake the nerveless protrusions and twisted ripples he felt, seeming to rise directly from his flesh…

He pushed the furs lower, exposing his torso to the cool air and his mortified eyes.

"I'm sorry, Pyrus." Brangwen seemed to speak from a great distance. "We all did what we could, but burns are difficult wounds to mend, through magic or otherwise, without remainder scar tissue. But these ones were especially obstinate, they barely responded to even the restoration master's spells…"

"Of course they wouldn't mend," Pyrus answered her in a strange voice. "Vylornar's abilities precede comprehension. Only burns born of dragonfire leave scars such as these."

It would explain the great force of the heatwave, the devastating power of the firelances—for below his shoulders were the most terrible scars Pyrus had ever seen. He'd been more than merely scarred; his lower abdomen had been completely disfigured, the flesh melted grotesquely and tinged an angry shade of red across his gut. That was from when he'd been struck but by a tail-end of Vylornar's wave of fire, and Pyrus was deeply disturbed at the revelation of this—and disquieted when at last he turned his attention to where the firelance had passed through him.

"There was never any hope for that," Brangwen whispered. "The attack he inflicted there was so hot the wound was instantly cauterized."

The flesh it had seared away could never be replaced; and until the end of his days, there was a blemished hollow between a pair of scarred ribs in his right side, so large and deep that he could comfortably insert his knuckles in it. The surrounding skin had been badly burned and branded also. _Marks of dragonfire cast from the fingers of a mortal Dragonlord. I thought that impossible; dragonfire can only come from a dragon and yet…they have truly entrusted Vylornar with their secrets._

"I'm sorry," Brangwen murmured. "They're…terrible. I wish I could have done more."

"It's no matter," said Pyrus, still in his strange voice, though he remained deeply shaken at the extent of his scars. "Where are my robes?"

She collected a folded bundle from the table, but even before they reached him Pyrus recognized them. "Those are my Novice robes. I haven't worn those in—"

"—almost seventeen years," Brangwen finished quietly. "I know. You were barely in them before you were presented with the Apprentice ones. But…the robes you were wearing that day…they were too badly damaged to save."

"A pity—but take those away. Bring me my Adept robes."

"Pyrus…" Brangwen sighed. "The other mages…they confiscated the rest. They said if you were so fortunate as to ever wake again, these were the robes best for you to wear, until you prove to the College once more that you are capable of behaving like…like…someone of your appropriate status. That you are more than a child playing with fire."

Pyrus gaped at her. "I'm not lying," she said quietly. "I guess they want to teach you humility."

"And to be so ignominiously defeated by Dragonlord Vylornar was not enough for them?"

"Pyrus, I'm sorry—"

"Stop saying that." Her constant apologies were proving most annoying. "It's not your fault. Bring them here."

She promptly did so, wearing a worried expression. Pyrus didn't look at her, just grasped the fabric in his hands, quickly remembering their former strength. Coloured teal and pale tan, almost as flawless as the day he'd first received it from complete lack of use, he detected the basic enchantments of magicka enhancement still thrumming brightly within every fibre. He resented it at once. _Robes for a child._

"And I have nothing else?" he asked bitterly.

He didn't need Brangwen to respond; her silence was answer enough.

Vylornar had almost killed him, but the College continued to pain him with their snide; his life had near been lost to the Dragonlord, his dignity burned to ashes, but the worst wound he nurtured now was that of his pride.

 _Elven pride would be the death of him,_ she'd said—if there was any left to him. _As if I couldn't sink any lower._ Too angry to feel his protesting aches, he swept the covers back. _No wonder I care not for love._

 **d|b**


	25. XXIV - Into the East

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

It felt good to be back in the saddle, doing what he did best. The last of the fire-leafed maple trees had long been left behind him, and Ross rode up the winding cobblestone road, crossing from one hold into the next.

Never had one of his contracts been so tiresome.

 _Gosvahgraag_ was over two weeks behind him, a length of time he could have easily traversed the entirety of the province east to west, but unfortunate complications had arisen shortly after he made his way through the mountain pass and crossed the border into _Gravuungevild_.

The rich golden forests of the south were home to many creatures—primarily predators. Bears were particularly common, and the dragons that made their homes in this hold often had to eat the huge, shaggy hunters for a profound lack in other sources of prey. Despite this, bears were plentiful in number. Ross had been in _Gravuungevild_ many times this year alone—the autumnhold was the third most populated territory in Skyrim with five settlements and the capital _Aarhorvutah_ —and considered himself well aware of the threat of bears, but he had not been in this hold since spring, and their numbers appeared to have bloomed throughout the breeding season.

It was proven when, close to dawn on the fifth morning since his departure from _Gosvahgraag_ , Ross and his horse were surprised by a pair of young bears, which was almost laughable; his message was intended for a young bear, but did these two spare him for that? The mountain pass was only an hour behind them, yet they attacked when he'd barely started into the autumnhold, on the road to the nearest town. A frenzied fight followed, during which Ross managed to shoot one dead before it could attack; the other bowled both him and his steed clean over. Dazed from its strike, Ross struggled to reload, but he was not fast enough; the bear promptly lunged for the horse struggling to his feet, its jaws closing around one of the flailing hocks.

Pure panic overtook both mount and rider. A bolt was planted in the bear's throat before it could splinter the limb in its powerful maw, but its fangs had opened deep gashes in its prey's leg. Even after Ross soothed his beautiful steed and helped him get up off the ground, the horse could barely stand. In those few seconds when the bear had caught his prey, wounds had been laid down to the bone.

It seemed so grave that Ross had almost been tempted to put his beast out of his misery—the horse was Cyrodiilian-bred, built for speed, not endurance—but a freerider was only as good as his horse, and in his heart he knew there was no other mount to be found in the world that would ever be as good as his stallion. He could not bring himself to kill him.

He tore a strip from his travelstained cloak and used it to bind the horse's leg, then walked him the last mile to the nearest town, _Kodaavnahkip_ —and never had Ross found the town's name, which meant _Bear Feed_ , more ironic.

By dawn he'd found his way into the stirring settlement and to the stables. Ross always made his horse his first priority wherever he went, and this day it was no different, other than throughout his settling of the tired beast he fretted and fought to keep his desperation hidden from the stablehands that came to help. The wound hadn't staunched and still wept scarlet.

The stablemaster took one look and pronounced the horse a lost cause, which Ross furiously denied. "He's not as strong as your Skyrim-bred beasts, but he's tougher than he looks."

"Even Skyrim-bred beasts don't heal from a wound like this."

"Find me a healer."

"The best are to be found in Stormstone, two days from now. It'll take two days to even send them a message."

Ross couldn't wait that long—anger he rarely felt came surging up in him. "Are there none in this sparse settlement?" he exclaimed. "Not even an elder capable of casting the simplest spell in the healing arts?"

"No spellcasters here," the stablemaster answered, "though you might be in luck yet; some roaming alchemist just paid a week's worth of board in the inn. Maybe he can help."

Ross gave orders that his injured horse be treated with as tender care as a wounded child before leaving the stables to seek out this alchemist—who was preparing to leave on a herb-gathering expedition of some particular plants that flourished around this particular community, which was what had apparently drawn him here in the first place. He agreed to look at the freerider's steed, and after a few minutes' study of the bear's wound, pronounced that the lacerations would be particularly difficult to fully heal, and the shock of them might kill its suffering host given time, even if medicine was prepared.

Such was Ross's desperation that he pleaded the alchemist to try. "If it is gold you need, I will gladly pay you."

"I am not interested in gold," the alchemist answered. "It is time I need, and what you cannot give."

"For as long as I've done what I do, I've ridden this horse. He and I have endured a thousand journeys across Skyrim."

"Touching, but memories will not save him."

"Medicine can."

"It can. I know the saying about freeriders and their mounts. Yes, I will do my best for you—I have a soft spot for these kinds of things. I will have a day to gather my necessary ingredients, and another to make a potion suited for this animal's needs." He proffered a phial as he spoke. "For now, ensure the horse's wounds are thoroughly cleaned, and its bandages are soaked in the contents of this bottle before you bind them. It will prevent whatever infection—bear bites have a rather irritable tendency to induce bone break fever in their hosts."

Despite the stablemaster's persistent doubts, Ross had him carry out the alchemist's orders. Throughout those first two days he didn't leave his stallion, even sleeping in the same stall as him. The horse's condition deteriorated slowly, though it was pain and fatigue that ebbed his strength; the alchemist's potion was potent, and no sickness spread from the bite.

At last the alchemist returned on the dawn of the third day with the promised medicine. The wound was festering freely, but Ross was assured that the discharge was a good sign. "Pus drinks foul humours and restores the blood; it is a sign your animal values its life and is fighting for it, which is admittedly impressive. Then again, your steed is still in his prime years and at the peak of his physique. He certainly stood a chance."

"The medicine will heal him?"

"I am certain of it. Soak the horse's bandages in the potion and change his bindings twice a day. I have two bottles. Each bottle should last you three days. By the end of this week your horse should be able to stand and walk freely, and once that is achieved his strength will return swiftly. You will be back on the road in less than a fortnight."

The alchemist was as good as his word. By that evening the stallion's condition had already improved, and by the time Ross had used up the first bottle of medicine, the wound was healing swiftly, and its host grew better by the day. The alchemist departed _Kodaavnahkip_ on his own accord during that time without being paid a single coin.

This had greatly taken Ross by surprise. "He never came for payment."

"I guess saving that sorry beast was payment enough for him," the stablemaster shrugged.

"Do you know him?"

"Know? No. I've only seen him come into this town on occasion, as always on the hunt for herbs. He's not the social sort, keeps to himself, definitely doesn't make a ceremony out of things. Think I overheard his name once, though I'm bad with them. It was funny, though, not what you'd expect with an Altmer and their fancy callings; some flower, I think?"

Ross stayed in _Kodaavnahkip_ for ten days and departed on the eleventh morning, on the fifteenth of Last Seed, and while most of that time was spent constantly tending to his recovering horse, he did spend an hour or two in the inn each night following his mount's regenerating health, and while he told the interested townsfolk stories and events happening around Skyrim, they also had a great many to tell, and some were more fascinating than others.

"You've heard of the Viper, right? Infamous thief, makes men bleed tears as she steals right in front of them? She was sighted in _Aardiiah_ , and she stole something of immense value from Dragonlord Ollos himself! Can you believe it? She stole from a Dragonlord, she went so far as to make him weep tears of blood as she slipped away into the night! There's a bounty for her capture that could buy an entire city!"

"Word is the Summerset Isles have been hit by the World-Eater's forces, and Firsthold's been sacked, every single citizen slaughtered or devoured. There's been another rebellion down there, another attempt at reforming the Aldmeri Dominion, so the story goes—of course that attracted the monsters' notice. What were those fool elves thinking? The World-Eater and the Dread destroyed the Dominion once, when they were at the pinnacle of their power: what made them think this crude reassembling could ever make a stand?"

"You've heard about Vylornar's census, right? It ended in the northhold on the first day of latesummer—not that there's any summer up there—but apparently some mage from the College tried to kill the Dragonlord! Imagine that, some bold fool thinking they could take on a Dragonlord—and Vylornar, no less—Of course he got blown to pieces and didn't land a single blow, but the dragonmen can't stop talking about the duel. Their firefight nearly blew the town apart!"

"If you could believe the rumours, the stonehold is becoming a much more dangerous place to be—for dragons. Strange, isn't it? Dragons have been turning up dead in their lairs. It's almost like someone's hunting them, there're signs of struggle, but the dragonmen believe the dragons themselves aren't responsible for the deaths of their kin—only a few weeks ago a prestigious active loyalist of the World-Eater's was hunted to his death. Who could possibly be so bold as to do such a thing? Nobody knows, though interrogations have increased in Markarth and the warden's urging anyone with information to come forward…"

"The Raiders are withdrawing across _Jergevild_! Their forces are moving east into the mountains. What is the young bear thinking? Are they trying to mount an assault on the World-Eater's Eyrie? Madness! They'll be destroyed for certain! Kaarn must be truly broken by the death of his uncle if he's attempting such folly!"

Much had been happening throughout Skyrim, but it was the rumours of the Raiders' flight into the eastern mountains that held Ross's attention longest. He'd given little thought as to how he'd attract the Raiders' attention, prepared to cross that bridge when he came to it—now he had a modest sense of where to look for them. _Though the Eyrie is found in those mountains, and the Eyrie is the World-Eater's throne—if you could dignify that tyrant with one. Even in Alduin's absence, I can't imagine that place being unguarded. Dragons will hear of the Raiders in the easternmost mountains, and when they do the rebellion will perish for sure…_

Were the Raiders routed with the death of Ulfric Stormbear? _Then the message from the Greensmile voicing his support is made all the more important,_ Ross thought, conscious of the letter stashed safely in a hidden pouch on his belt—he didn't trust his saddlebags to keep it from falling into unwanted hands. He felt that familiar restlessness he always gained from spending time in one place too long—his horse was almost healed, standing and walking without trouble, each step taken stronger than the last. Soon the road would be beneath him again, and he would ride north to the east.

It was where he was now, as Ross withdrew from his thoughts; in the saddle where he belonged, his horse under him, galloping across the border into _Jergevild_. Now even the bearwood was behind them.

The road to the easthold wound its way up a plateau, and from the cliffs Ross could see the vast stretch of the sweeping volcanic tundra. He paused here to allow his horse to catch his breath, and to check his wound. It had healed well, closed neatly into some gleaming silver scars. The last of the sunlight was fading, and the mournful cries of dragonsong were subsiding as night closed in—Ross found shelter in a disused animal den atop the plateau, and there he let his horse rest while he studied his map and planned how best he start his search for his unknowing receivers.

An ungainly flurry of feathered wings made Ross look up; his shelter was located beneath a bristly fir tree, and upon one jutting branch a raven had lighted—and one that seemed familiar. Was it the same one from the greenwood?

In the moonlight and beneath the open sky, it appeared an old and rather ugly animal. Its plumage had receded around its large head and oversized beak, displaying a lot of withered grey skin around its beady eyes, and every feather had a permanently bedraggled look. It was also quite big, as large as or larger than a snowy owl.

Again, Ross was made uncomfortable by it. "Go away," he snapped, looking for something suitable to throw at it. "Go bother something else."

The raven screeched at him. The horse started with a shrill whinny.

"Get away with you!" Ross cried.

" _Way!_ " the raven shouted back.

Ross recoiled in surprise. This haggard old bird was a mimic—some ravens could be like that, and they were the most annoying ones. "Yes, _way_ ," he told it. "Preferably _away_. Go on, shoo, back to the forest with you." The last thing he needed was that dratted carrion-eater following him around.

His hand closed around a stone, but before he could throw it the raven hurled itself into the air and vanished in a few noisy wingbeats, screaming, " _Way! Way! Way!_ " in its wake.

Ross glowered after it and released his would-be projectile. _And may a dragon eat you, and good riddance to that._

He was awake before dawn, in the saddle an hour before the sun was risen. He made it to the bottom of the trail when light crept across the sky, and promptly turned east towards the shadow of the mountains. It was dangerous to ride in daylight, but he preferred that to the danger of trying to scale craggy peaks and precarious ledges in pitch darkness.

It seemed luck remained with him; by the time he reached the scattered highland territory at the foot of the mountains clouds had covered the sky and a drizzle was falling, creating a mist upon the ground that gradually grew thicker as the rain grew heavier. Ross pulled up his hood and draped himself more snugly beneath his cloak as he prepared for a long day of searching. He stopped at the foot of one old mountain trail to once more check his horse's healed injury before mounting and starting the ascent into the stony hills.

Occasionally shadows passed over him, and the calls of hunting dragons echoed through the mountains, rumbling through the stone, but visibility was reduced and Ross was not seen. For a few hours they peacefully searched the mountainside for any sign of life or Raider activity, gradually moving north as they went; but either the rumours were false or the Raiders were excellent at concealing themselves and an entire rebellion, for the search proved fruitless. Ross had expected this, though he despaired a little; there had to be some easier way to gain their attention without attracting the sky-borne enemy.

The rain soon reassumed drizzle as the day warmed, though the mist was thick and cool. Nonetheless, the humidity stirred a thirst in both beast and rider, and it so happened that they soon came across a grassy shelf where a rill ran through. Gratefully Ross slid from the saddle and led his horse to water, and both drank contentedly from the icy stream.

He let his mount rest and drink a while longer as he studied this new environment. The silhouettes of the mountains rose all around him, barren and unforgiving, but tussocks of tough grass bent beneath his boots. Hunger gnawed at him, and he thought of the food in his saddlebags. Somehow it was evening; a whole day had already been spent in the mountains of _Jergevild_. _And of course I find nothing,_ Ross thought with a sigh. At least where he was would be a good place to spend the night; he spotted a ledge of stone nearby where a lip of rock jutted out to shelter a shallow space beneath. He wandered over to investigate—it was no underground cave, but it would do to keep the wind and rain out. Perhaps it would prove foggy enough to light a small fire and dry off a little for the day ahead.

A faint, sharp _crack_ turned his eyes from the overhang to the ridge above it. A pebble clacked its way down the mountainside to land near his boots.

Ross guardedly followed its route all the way up to the shrouded peaks, though it seemed devoid of any life. _They always make you think that, though,_ he thought, _and it's better to jump at nothing than not to in these dangerous times._ His hand snaked beneath his cloak and grasped his crossbow as he turned his eyes from the stony slopes to look guardedly across the grassy shelf. Dragons were not the only predators to dwell in the mountains—cougars and wolves made their home here as well. His horse had been disturbed by the pebble and with twitching ears and eyes he scanned the area, though he did not seem too alarmed and shortly resumed drinking.

There was another clattering, followed by a rush of wings, and even as Ross whipped around with his crossbow drawn he saw the creature disappearing into the silvery sky, shrieking hoarsely as the sound of its feathers faded.

Ross shook his head. _I don't believe it._ He lowered his weapon and glowered after it. _Stupid bird._

He listened intently a moment more, but heard only the silence and echoes of the mountains. He slipped his crossbow back to its sheath as he made his way back to the brook.

That was when he heard the unexpected footsteps, yet by the time he registered those there was a black flash before his eyes and his breath and voice was shut away as a cord tightened around his throat. He choked, scrabbling desperately at the hands of his attacker, as a rough growl sounded close to his ear. "One sound, dragonman, and we'll make it especially painful."

 _Dragonman._ The word seared through Ross's frantic mind. _They think I'm their enemy._ He heard his horse start and snort in fear, saw two more men appear upon the shelf, one leave to subdue the panicking animal while the other advanced with a weapon drawn.

 _I can't let them…_ Ross tried to gasp his title. " _Frh—frh—fh—_ " How could it be so hard? It was only one word! How could one word be so difficult to say?

There was no more time; he and his thoughts were beginning to black out. _Can't let them…message…_ He dropped one hand just below his throat, gesturing wildly at his collarbone, at his pin. _Let them see it…see it…please…_

His vision was darkening, but he glimpsed a shape just in front of him, put a hand beneath the fold of his hood; then suddenly the weapon fell away as its bearer ordered, "Let him go, now!"

The pressure on his windpipe vanished instantly and Ross fell on his face, gasping.

Footsteps sounded around him, and slowly he climbed to his knees, leaning on one arm while the other pressed his aching throat. Gradually his vision cleared, he stopped trembling and his breaths quietened from ragged gulps to drawn rasps. Only then did he raise his head, to find himself staring up a longsword to a pair of armoured Nord men, standing over him with guarded expressions.

Raiders.

"Who sent you?" the swordsman demanded.

It took a moment before Ross found his voice again. "Halling," he wheezed.

Their eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Greensmile. Warden of the south." He sensed their anger and added hastily, "Not for the reason you think."

"You bring a message from that traitorous Nord, that dragon-lover," his interrogator growled. "What is it?"

"I might remember better," Ross panted, annoyed, "if there wasn't a sword in my face."

"Fair enough." The tip jerked down and pressed at his throat instead, and he stiffened at the prick of steel on his skin. "Now what's this message?"

"It's intended for your leader."

"You're the messenger. Give us the message. We'll be the ones to pass it on."

He'd heard that before. "It's for Kaarn Stormbear's eyes and ears only—he'll be the one to decide if the rest of you will hear it."

The sword pressed deeper against his flesh. "And in case you've forgotten," the Raider responded, "we're the ones who'll decide if you'll walk out of this with your neck intact."

"I'm a messenger, as you said," said Ross stiffly, staring apprehensively at the weapon under his chin. "I take no sides. I'm not your enemy."

"Nor are you a friend, and if you aren't a friend, you're our enemy. Even freeriders."

Ross became aware of a rummaging sound; he glanced to where his horse stood, ears twitching in agitation, as a Raider busied himself emptying every saddlebag he could see. "You won't find it in there," Ross said. "If you didn't know already, we're rather good at concealing our deliveries for just this reason."

He turned back to the pair who stood before him. "The only way the Greensmile's message will reach Kaarn is through me to him. No conduits."

"We can easily become them." The sword pressed harder, and Ross cautiously leaned back to prevent the sharp blade biting into his skin. "Give us one good reason why we shouldn't."

 _Think._ "Kill me," he responded cautiously, "and you'll be no better than the dragons you hate so." When the weapon lingered still, he added, "Nords are a folk that value honour—is this is true, you'll put the sword away and let the messenger deliver."

The two Raiders shared a glance. Ross waited tensely, until at last the touch of steel disappeared.

"You'll come with us quietly," they said.

The freerider climbed to his feet. "Of course."

"Show you mean that. Your weapon."

Ross sighed as he reluctantly surrendered his crossbow. "His saddlebags are bare," the Raider by his horse called. "Only food and clothes."

"Quietly, remember," the one before him said. One.

Ross detected the other moving behind him and guessed what was coming. "Is this really necessary?" he asked.

"Afraid so. Can't have you giving away where we are, Imperial, willingly or unwilling."

Then the bag went over his head.

 **d|b**


	26. XXV - The Law of the Hunt

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

 _For the glory of the Father, the Mother, and the hunt,_ she thought as the dragon died, screaming, with her fangs in its fleshy throat.

Long after its final throes had ceased, Chase stood two-legged over its corpse, smiling her red smile. "Your flesh is mine," she whispered. "Your blood is mine. Your life is mine." Dragonblood remained in her mouth and upon her tongue even after she changed; and as she did with all her prey, she savoured the bittersweet taste of its life's crimson.

It had been a struggle. The lair of the creature now displayed all the signs of one. Blood was painted across the bone-strewn floor. Vast cracks ran up the ice walls. The rows of icicles that had formed on the ceiling had been broken and shattered. Now the frozen cave was silent once more, but for the noises the bandits made as they searched for worthy treasure.

 _They believe themselves to have earned it._ Chase watched them, still smiling. _Even Amos._ Despite his fear of the creatures, the Redguard had been one of the five warriors Gramu had selected to join in the dragon hunt. He was still alive to tell the tale; he stood across the cave, running his fingers along a fragment of the beast's discarded skin.

It had been how she'd hurt it before—this kind of dragon had a hide like a serpent's, and apparently shed it accordingly. Its skin had still been fresh and new the day she encountered it in the wilds; it was still soft and vulnerable, though notably tougher, when Chase returned to its lair with a pack in tow.

She'd found Gramu and before the entire clan she explained where she'd been all day and announced her proposal of raiding the lair of a dragon—infamous hoarders of treasure, she reminded them, and exaggerated it to wind the bandits up. It didn't take them long to lose interest in her and the supposed punishment their chieftain intended to inflict upon her for disobeying his orders—again. Even the chieftain had been intrigued at the thought.

It took him three days to make his final decision, but of course he was for the idea. A wounded dragon was easier to kill than a whole and hale one, he'd declared, and that was when Chase knew he was sold. _He's gluttonous for more than war,_ she'd thought in triumph. So he chose five bandits—Amos and four fools she didn't care to know—and the next day had her lead them into the lonehold and to the dragon's lair. Fresh snow had fallen in the time Gramu had delayed, but in her wolven skin, not even veiled scents were missed.

As evening fell they came to the lair at last and found the dragon resting, but fully awake, within. Battle had begun at once; it knew why they were here, and recognized her, and wordlessly had launched an elemental attack that instantly froze one of Gramu's warriors. The dragon's wounds to its underbelly and leg had healed somewhat, but still harried it throughout the fight—yet never had Chase met a fiercer opponent. She found herself seriously doubting wounded dragons were any easier to kill than unwounded ones, for this was a dragon that exceeded estimation.

It could breathe both fire and ice, become invulnerable for brief but crucial moments, and shatter armour with three whispered words. That was how a second bandit had died; he was struck with purple energy cast from its maw that turned metal as brittle as eggshell, and was promptly snapped in half with one sweep of its tail.

The fight continued, three human warriors and a werewolf against one wounded dragon. Chase never would have imagined such difficulty killing the injured beast, but wounded predators were infinitely more dangerous. It was especially ferocious, furious even, as though the impertinence of these mortals had done it some personal insult. It was Gramu that dealt the first game-changing blow; his axe cleaved clean through the joint on its wing, crippling the entire limb. From then, it weakened continuously throughout the fight. Though its breath attacks remained something to beware, they came less often.

And so eventually, working together like a pack, they drove the beast into submission—another bandit died in this attempt—but Chase was the one who slipped through the dragon's weakening defense and administered the final killing blow. Her fangs tore easily through the scales yet to toughen, and the dragon writhed beneath her as she prayed.

So had ended the battle, in victory, yet Chase was not fully contented. _A pack indeed succeeded against a_ krag-nalihr _, but something is missing. This does not feel as right as it should._ Was it because she'd wounded it before she and her pack came after it? Did she need to convince the clan to pursue a healthy, whole dragon, to prove to the wolves that even two-legged hunters, who were far weaker, were capable of slaying the _krag-nalihr_ when they came together?

She growled and shook her head in growing frustration. Before she thought she knew, and she'd been so sure—now she wasn't, and doubted her choice. _I may have just wasted my time._

"Hey, dog!" She snapped around at the bandit's call. "Where's the treasure you promised us?"

A soft growl rumbled deep in her throat. _I am no dog on a leash._ She stalked to him, and his self-assured smile faltered at the danger he sensed in her. He stepped back and threw up his weapon, which she easily tore from his grasp, and flung the burly Nord against the wall as echoes of the wolf's strength thrummed beneath her skin.

"Chase!" Amos ran over. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You heard him," she growled without turning around. "You heard what he said."

The bandit struggled back to his feet with a bewilderedly furious expression. "She gone rabid or something?" he shouted.

"Just have a care what you name her," Amos advised. "She's been a…little sensitive about that lately."

Chase glared at him, and was satisfied to see him visibly flinch. _Perhaps my eyes are bronze to him._ "I will not tolerate anything less than what I deserve," she warned. _You will not so easily make me forget the spirit in me again._ She looked back at her victim. "Call me that once more, and you will see your entrails in your arms before you even saw me tear you in half."

Only when she was satisfied with the bandit's newfound fear did she turn away, giving his fallen weapon a scornful kick. _Like a pup to its mother's teat._

"He had a point, though," Amos said, walking with her. "About the treasure."

Chase curled her lip. "So I was wrong about it."

"No—you _lied_ about it." Amos gestured furiously around the lair. "You said you saw treasure. You claimed to have seen the glint of gold and precious stones with your own eyes—I see nothing but ice and bones and the fetid remains of its last meal!"

She scowled at him. "You lowly humans and your lust for shiny things."

Amos shook his head. "No, this is about the bloody reward for killing that monster—and your deception. You've been like this, distant and defiant, ever since that damned wolf showed up."

Chase answered softly. "You will not speak of my alpha like that again."

"I'll speak of him as I damn well please, d—" He began to say it, then wisely remembered, abandoned, and continued. "He told you something, didn't he? He gave you some orders and now you're fulfilling them out."

She smiled wryly at his presumption. _No orders were given but to remind these mortal fools that I am no bloodhound, I am the hunter among hunters, and I am the wolf that kills easier than she breathes._ "You have ended a dragon," she said. "Are you not satisfied?"

"I didn't kill the bloody thing for glory!"

"You didn't kill it at all."

Amos narrowed his eyes. "No, I didn't…you did. And you were the one who suggested it. You convinced us all that this lair had something worth taking; you wanted us to come here and kill—to _help you kill_ —this monstrosity. Now how does this further the mysterious plot you've been playing since that wolf paid you a visit?"

Chase laughed. _Humans are so_ petty _!_ "Wolves do not bother with plots or secrecy," she answered. "When we want something, everyone knows of it! We solve our problems with death and blood—every new alpha has killed his last before the eyes of the entire pack! Should we ever be dissatisfied we fight for satisfaction or submit in shame at the source of our dissent! Deception is but a negligible matter with wolves—we do not play that trifling game."

"But humans do, and they are good at it," Amos answered coldly, "and what I think you have forgotten is that you aren't wholly wolf—there's human in you as well, and humans are quite capable of lying and cheating to further their own desires at the expense of those around them—and all those who do are _despicable._ "

"You think I care for your opinion?" Chase whirled on him and he recoiled, instantly wary. "There are only two voices in this world that have sway over me, whose words and thoughts for me count for anything at all, and you are most certainly not one of them."

As Amos opened his mouth to answer, a great shattering of ice sounded.

The argument forgotten, Chase sought the source of the noise at once, and found it just as quickly; Gramu, standing in one frozen corner of the cavern, pulled back his axe from where he'd cleaved clean into the gleaming wall. Splinters lay all around him, crunching beneath his boots as wordlessly he drew himself back and swung his weapon into the wall once again.

"Gramu!" shouted Amos above the second surge of cracking. "What in Oblivion are you doing?"

The Warglutton appeared to have no answer but to heft his axe around a third time and smash it into the ice wall with another deafening _crack_. When this was done he cast his weapon aside, dropped to his knees, and reached into the three deep ruptures he'd set into the wall. He pulled, the frozen segment he'd crudely carved cracking and splintering with the effort, until at last the chunk of ice surrendered to his greater strength and was torn from the wall.

Panting a little, Gramu pushed himself back to his feet—the fruit of his labours, a large chunk of the wall, rested in his arms.

"There is treasure here," the Warglutton announced, "but not the kind we expected!"

He then raised the slab of ice above his head—and that was when Chase saw what was imprisoned beneath the gleaming rime, what Gramu had been blunting his axe to attain.

And some inner part of her instantaneously made everything she'd known make perfect sense.

"Wait!" she roared, but her cry came too late; the ice block was hurled and smashed upon the floor.

Gramu smiled, immensely satisfied. "No wonder she was so fierce. What a prize she guarded."

Chase started forward, then stopped in surprise. The ice had broken and scattered with the force of impact, yet what had been contained within rested quite intact upon the floor, surrounded by the ruins of its holding; a ridged and patterned oval the size of a small boulder.

A dragon's egg.

"Stendarr's mercy," Amos swore, gaping at the thing.

Gramu walked over to it and quite easily lifted it off the ground, though he needed both his hands to support it however he held it. "No gold," he said, studying its glittering shell, "no jewels…but there was one precious stone she protected, and from her we have won. This!" He raised the egg above his head to admire it from all angles. "This is the wealth of our victory."

Chase stared at it hungrily. _Oh yes it is._ A dragon's egg…an invaluable item, a prize without price, and perhaps what she'd unknowingly been searching for. _It will be useful. I need it. I don't know why yet, but I need it._ It was an instinct in her, and in her an incessant want for the egg was seeding. _Shirju may know what best to do with it…but a dragon's egg…the offspring of our enemy…_

A plan burst into life in her mind. _We could hatch it. We could take the egg and hatch it ourselves—it will drink the milk of wolves, and from then its loyalty will be bound to us. We will raise it to be a hunter among hunters…and when the other packs see what we have accomplished…when we demonstrate that we can make even dragons bend to our will…dragons kill their own kind as readily as men and wolves kill theirs. We will train it to hunt for us, hunt its own kind…_

It was a strange and flawed and even quite an outrageous plan, but one that in the instant of her epiphany, she was certain would work. _I must have the egg. It is not Gramu's._ A far more primal edge to her was stirring in her soul. _He did not kill the dragon, after all. He did not kill its guardian, its mother—it was I who tracked her to her lair, and I who delivered the killing blow. It is the law of the hunt; I am the hunter and that is my prize._

"I don't see how that's worth anything," said the bandit who Chase did not care to know. "It's just an egg."

"Idiot," Gramu snapped. "Don't you realize what we could do if we had a dragon of our own? We could do more than ambush and slaughter unwary travellers, barely scraping by a profit. We'd be burning towns to dust."

Chase curled her lip. _That is not what will happen to that egg._ "You can't trust in that," she snarled. "Dragons show no loyalty whatsoever to any they consider below them—and any who are not immortal are just that."

The bandit chieftain turned to her. "Not if we raise it."

"You won't raise it," Chase growled. "I killed its mother. By all rights, that egg is mine."

Gramu started to laugh. "What is this—finally, after so many announcements that you care nothing for the profit and only the blood, greed has grasped your hard wolven heart? I can see it in your eyes. You want this." He brandished the egg. "You want it so desperately, you _need_ it, and you're prepared to kill to satisfy your avarice and take it for your own. I know that well. It's the black and thriving soul of banditry, and it only took a dead dragon and the sight of its unborn offspring in the form of a shining stone to waken it in you."

Chase snarled, her skin itching—she was but moments away from transformation. _I will not stand to be mocked by the likes of you, Warglutton._ "Give it here. You have no right to that egg."

"I have every right," he answered, and a scowl darkened his coarse features. "You have none to challenge me for this that I claim as my own. This is what you promised the clan when you led us here. You should have realized that when you put the idea forward!"

"You think I care for the clan?" Chase spat. "I'm not such a sentimental creature! I obey the laws of the hunt, the lowest laws a beast may follow—and deny those laws and you prove yourself lower than the lowest of them."

Gramu snorted. "I obey no law but my own—and those who disagree with my laws I kill myself."

Chase gave a hollow laugh. Did he think he was invulnerable to her fury behind his skin of silver? "I'd love to see you try," she hissed. "I don't agree with your laws and I never have—and I won't endure you or your arrogance a moment longer. You presume to command the wolf." Her hands tensed, her bones twisting slowly beneath her skin. In a surge of pure bloodlust such as this, the wolf she could call at will. "You do not. You never have."

"I knew I never controlled you, not really," Gramu answered. He set the egg down behind him and clenched both fists. "These recent disobediences have only told me that the day would come when you would betray me."

"Betray?" Chase spat. "Betrayal would mean I was loyal to you. Never, you stupid little man. I was never loyal to anyone but my pack."

Gramu snorted. "And that visiting beast served to remind you of that. Of course."

"Chase—" Amos grasped her wrist like a vice, fearful anger sharp in his voice. "—enough of it. Stop that. Stand down, _now_."

It worked once, when she was docile, a good dog; now it kindled the simmering rage and gave her the inhuman strength to seize Amos by his throat and hurl the stunned Redguard across the cave into the other bandit. Both were thrown to the ground, and both were still.

"Give me the egg," Chase growled, voice darkening as the change began to consume her. "Last chance, before I tear you apart."

Gramu chortled. "In your risen rapacity you have quite abandoned sense. You are a _werewolf_ —incredibly vulnerable to what is covering every inch of the body you want to rip to shreds."

"You are a craven to hide behind a skin like that."

"I am sensible—you are not." Two burly fists rose in front of his helmed head. "As you are about to discover."

He lunged with a roar, and Chase answered; within seconds she'd completely assumed her wolven form, and howling in fury, she lunged to meet him.

And for the first time in her life, she shrieked in agony.

Gramu's studded fists smashed into her abdomen, each blow burning right through her thick pelt and down to her flesh, penetrating it, boiling her blood. When Chase lashed out in defense and knocked the bandit away, she screamed again as her palms smashed into the silver plates and the skin was scalded. She recoiled, cradling her paws as they steamed, the flesh turned raw and painful.

 _He is right._ For a moment, terror filled her, quashing the fury, the bloodlust—animal fear. She'd never known it, she'd always been the hunter, the predator; and now she understood how the prey felt when she converged on them as the monstrous wolf she became with every change, every release. _I'm defenseless. He is right. I cannot harm him while he wears his silver skin!_

There was nowhere exposed for her to strike. Gramu got back up, laughing loudly in her sudden dismay. "I've waited for this," he said, advancing as she guardedly retreated. "I knew this was to happen, your mutiny; I could practically taste your raging dissatisfaction with me. I've disposed of every man and woman that ever dared raise a blade against me; whatever made you think you'd be any different, beast?"

She snarled at him, snapped her fangs, but he advanced in complete confidence, and what could she do but recede from the metal that burned? _Beware Gramu,_ her alpha had warned, and she never had, because she'd killed every single animal that she'd so desired with no more trouble than it took to shift her skins. _So long as that silver hide is upon him, he is the one creature in this world that I cannot kill._ The thought was utterly degrading. _All my strength and speed and fury counts for nothing against this!_

But when she felt her foot brush against a shard of ice upon the ground, once more Chase had an epiphany. _I cannot hurt him, the wolf cannot hurt him—but that doesn't meant to say he can't be hurt._

Gramu lunged—she darted out of the way, seized the slab in her claws, and hurled it with all her wolven strength at his face when he spun to strike again. It shattered against his helmet and he staggered back, cursing.

"Go on, then!" he exclaimed. "Hurl all the bits of ice you want! Throw the bones at me! My men! Toss the dragon on me for all I care—that's not going to kill me!" He turned back laughing. "Face it, _dog_ , you can't reach me! You hate being so helpless! You hate being unable to kill me like you've killed everything else in this gods-forsaken world!"

Chase bared her fangs. Yes, bloodlust demanded that she sink her fangs into the meat of his body and crunch his bones, but so long as silver guarded him, she could not. It was highly frustrating and incredibly infuriating that she, the most powerful wolf in the world, was routed by a single man behind a simple metal skin.

Her eyes landed on Gramu's axe, left and forgotten on the sidelines of this fight. _Forgotten no longer,_ she thought with a savage smile, as memories flowed through her mind. _Any skin can be broken._

She lunged for the weapon and seized it in her claws. Not so long ago she asked Estilde why humans bothered with such large, ungainly things as swords and axes and hammers. _There's a lot of power behind the blows,_ she'd answered. _Heads are swept from shoulders, spines are severed, and limbs are cut clean off._

Chase growled as she dragged the ridiculously heavy axe around, straining to grasp it with two paws while maintaining balance on her hind legs. _Time to put that to the test._

Gramu laughed at the sight of her. "I can see the irony in this situation now," he declared—but it seemed to Chase that fear sounded faintly beneath his brazen boldness. _He knows I've found the flaw in his master plan._ "Bare-handed, I could kill my prey and she can't kill me; and like all of your two-legged prey, you now turn to a weapon, a piece of metal, to save you!"

 _But there's one great difference,_ Chase thought in growing satisfaction. _My prey's weapons never could kill me—but the same cannot be said for you._

She swept the axe around, but almost at once she lost her balance, and her strike went wide and wild, cracking deep into the floor of the cave.

Gramu laughed. "You can't even swing the bloody thing!"

His scorn fuelled Chase's fury. She heard him advance but focused on pulling the weapon from where it'd stuck fast in the ground. She succeeded at last, and staggered again with the weight of it. Gramu advanced and struck her hard.

Pain burned across her muzzle and she recoiled with an agonized whimper, which swiftly deepened into a growl of rage. She tightened her grip, braced herself, and brought the weapon round in a deadly arc. The axe struck home, throwing Gramu across the room, where he collided with the opposite wall and fell with a grunt onto his front.

Chase flattened her ears, snarling her delight. Estilde hadn't been wrong. The weapon did all the work; she just had to hang on for the ride.

She marched to where the bandit chieftain lay limply upon the floor, dragging the axe behind her. Slowly he came round, filling his breathless lungs with air, straining to rise. A low growl rumbling in her throat, Chase used the blade of the axe to turn her victim over, determined to see the extent of the weapon's damage.

It was remarkable. She'd completely shattered the silver plates on his front.

 _The axe penetrates with brute force._ Chase smiled savagely and raised the weapon once more. _It's an ungainly thing, but it channels my strength and gives to me the capability to break his guarding skin._

There was nothing Gramu could do but shriek as she smashed his chestplate to pieces while he was still inside it. The blade of the axe tore it apart, exposing his heaving chest bruised and bloodied with the force of her vengeful strikes. Growling still, Chase flipped the weapon around, and with the end of its hilt she clumsily knocked his helmet from his head so she could stare into his watering eyes.

Only then did she toss the ungainly thing aside and extend her claws and a toothy smile. How she was going to enjoy this, to inflict upon this beast the rightful penance for one who thought himself above the laws of the wild and the hunt.

 _For the glory of the Father, the Mother, and the hunt._ She sank her claws into his pale skin and Gramu gave a little shuddering gasp that tickled her ears delightfully. _Your flesh is mine._

She tore into his breast, closed her clawed hand around his beating heart, in one fluid movement in which she could feel its frantic throbs against where the silver plate had scalded her palms. _Your blood is mine._

And into his trembling, glazing eyes she stared until the last of the pulses in her hand ceased.

 _Your life is mine._

 **d|b**


	27. XXVI - The Cold Cells

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

She didn't sleep the first night.

She remained awake, too terrified to close her eyes—not for fear of never opening again, but for opening them to the sight of Ollos come at last for her. She tried closing them once, almost succumbing to her own exhaustion, and his face was stark in her mind. His gleaming red eyes bored into her very soul and destroyed all will she'd ever known.

The cell was dark and dingy, located underground so all the cold from the snow above came seeping in through the stone and filled the room so she never stopped shivering. The only light came from a torch lit in the corridor just beyond the rusted iron bars of the door, meant only to make the shadows longer and blacker, and to provide no warmth for the damned.

Because Viper knew she was damned. She was in the hands of a Dragonlord, trapped so far north that there could be no hope of help for her, waiting for another, the one she'd wronged, to come and collect her.

All courage had fled her the instant she saw Cadmir standing over her—Cadmir, the Dragonlord who delighted in nothing better than pursuing his dream of creating the perfect undead. He wandered the north, choosing innocent folk and abducting them so cleverly that they were never missed, and throwing them into his cold cells to await their grisly fate. He was a terrible genius; not once was he mistaken when he came to choosing his victims. There was always something he needed from them, an eye, a finger, a piece of their skin. Only hours after she'd been chained down here, Viper had grown accustomed to the screams that echoed from the room above.

His victims, once ensnared, never saw daylight again. They were dragged to and from their cells, weeping; in fear as they went, in agony as they returned. She was amazed at how many there were—men, women, elders, mer…It was almost of some small comfort there were no children in the cells; they served Cadmir for a different purpose, assisting him in his grisly experiments as household slaves. He didn't start taking pieces from them until they'd grown.

All this was of little comfort to her. She was promised to Ollos. _The man whose cruelty won the dragons' respect and the World-Eater's trust._ Viper was terrified at what was to come. He wanted answers she couldn't give, and ones she wouldn't give. She was certain he would ask what organization she served. He would want to know if the Thieves Guild still existed. She had to lie, she had to protect her Guild…but she was too scared to deceive him. She didn't respond well to pain. She couldn't endure it. She couldn't even endure the thought of it.

A part of her hoped she'd go mad before he came for her. _Madness might help in the hell that is to come for me._ She didn't struggle in her chains. She struggled to escape the dread that swelled in herself. _This is what larceny has done—I have been betrayed._ Had the Guild known? Had they always known she'd never return to the Cistern? Had they willingly sacrificed her in their desire to attain those sixteen Stones of Barenziah? The mere thought of her own Guildmates using her like that was maddening, and terrifying, and heartbreaking all at once. _Betrayed,_ she thought numbly, _the life I made for myself and the people in it have all betrayed me to this terrible fate._

She couldn't stop trembling. She'd heard the stories of what Ollos was capable of doing. _He can extract answers out of the most stubborn, unyielding men…Those known for their bravery and fearlessness discover terror like nothing they've ever known when faced with that Dragonlord…He flays the cowards alive and boils the brave ones…_ Now it was her turn, the serpent's turn to face the dragon's torturous and pitiless questioning. _And the serpent will fail…_

There was nothing to do in the cold cells but think, and Viper couldn't stop doing that either. _Three weeks ago…a lifetime ago…I told Cenrin that I had no intention of being boiled by that revolting elf. Nobody ever has intentions to die when they leave their sanctuary…I'd grown arrogant. I thought I could return. That Ollos was just like any other man. No, he's not. He'd never stop looking. When he has me, he'll never let me escape. He'll kill me, but slowly. He'll draw every second out until he's satisfied in his vengeance. I stole from him…I humiliated him by making him succumb to his mortal desires, then stealing that pendant of his right before his eyes…his eyes that the Serpent's Kiss made to bleed, so he wept red tears to remember me by…and he remembers. Oh, he remembers, and now he's coming for me, and I am going to suffer at his hand long before I am granted the peace of death._

Her thoughts, numb with fear, slurred one after the other. She wavered in and out of present and past. Cadmir had handsomely paid the smugglers that betrayed her, and he'd grasped her and dragged her inside himself—his flesh had been colder than the snow that surrounded them. Viper had struggled but there was no escaping him once captured, and she'd been captured. He'd dragged her into the cold cell and bound her wrists high to the frozen wall in freezing irons, and stripped her bare. He'd admired her physique, expressed deep remorse that she was already claimed by another Dragonlord, was sorry to see such a figure put to waste to Ollos's wicked ways—then he left, taking her clothes with him, and for hours she'd hung alone in her cold cell, bare as the day she'd been born, sobbing.

Children servants came much later, but only to feed her and dress her. They were haunted little shells of what children should be. No laughter, no smiles, no curiosity; there was only dread in them. What Cadmir did to them…had them do…Viper would have felt sorry for them if she hadn't been so sorry for herself and her grim predicament. One of the children looked no older than six and already his life was this…this horror story that knew no end.

No, she didn't sleep the first night, for there was too much to think about, and too much to fear.

The second day Cadmir came to visit her, to pass on the news that Ollos had learned of her capture and would soon be on his way. Ollos wanted her in pristine condition, apparently, so soon his children would pay her a visit and make sure she was well fed. There was nothing he could do about the cold, he told her, there was nothing better for preserving his specimens and what he needed from them. Then he was gone, but his brief presence had been enough to destroy her self-control, and in the darkness of her cell she'd let the tears fall, but many froze on her cheeks, betraying her sorrow to the children that came a little while later with soup and bread.

During that second day prisoners went and returned. Viper watched every one of them leave and return, each the same desperate frightened soul as the last—but there were a few that either remembered their courage or had lost their fear entirely, fully expectant of what they were about to endure each time Cadmir's children came to their cells with chains and keys, mumbling that the master needed them. One fearless or courageous captive had been a woman, a Nord. When she was taken past Viper's cell, the thief had stared in fascinated horror, for the right side of the woman's face and most of her neck had been entirely stripped of skin. Even the ear and eye had been removed; two sunken indents in her head were all that remained of them. She showed great courage or no fear, but Viper still heard her scream. Upon being returned to her cell after Cadmir had satisfied himself with whatever he'd done on her, the left side of her was presented. That remained, for now, intact. She turned her head as she passed, her one remaining eye resting on Viper as the children led her back to her cell.

The Nord soon passed quickly out of mind, for Viper had the rest of the day to watch many more disfigured prisoners pass her cell—and she began to think again, and lose herself in her growing terror. Cadmir was just a shadow that would soon pass; she was pledged to Ollos, and he was coming for her.

 _A lifetime ago I climbed to the rooftops of Riften, New Riften,_ Aarhorvutah _, Slavetrap—and I watched the dragons fly by. I called them my cousins._ She saw them again, winging their way through the sky in an organized patrol; no mere hunting feral creature, nor a pack of them. She hadn't seen any riders but there might as well have been; Ollos was there in her memories, too. Somehow he was everywhere in them. He was the thief that came to bring her down from the rooftops; he was the man behind the desk she went to find; there he was again, in the face of the nameless smuggler that led her down the Hole and to the Bay.

 _They love playing with words, so speak well,_ Janquil reminded her. _Subtlety of the flesh, I find they enjoy. They have the patience to feel it through. Perhaps this serpent can whisper her way into a dragon's bitter heart._

No, the serpent had killed herself, the instant she slid beneath the eyes of the dragon. Viper nearly laughed at this absurdity. _I kissed him. I kissed him and placed upon him the serpent's binding touch. How faithful he is, come to find the serpent that coiled in his heart, and vanished with his trinket._

The third day came, but no Ollos, yet Cadmir visited again and reassured her that he was well on his way, that within a week he would be here. Viper found that peculiar before the terror consumed her. _Ollos is a Dragonlord—and Dragonlords have wingsteeds, dragons that demonstrate their loyalty to the World-Eater by watching over his mortal enforcers. What has he done with his? He would be here in days…he would be here now…_

The children came twice, surely in the morning and night—that was how she knew how many sunrises were passing—and gave her something hot, a luxury denied of many of the other prisoners. _Pristine condition,_ that was what Cadmir had said, what Ollos had wanted. Viper was almost tempted to spite them of that and refuse to eat…but she was so hungry, and what did it matter? She was to die screaming and writhing. Hot soup was a pleasure, most likely the last she would ever receive.

The fourth day came and went. The children came to feed her supper, but one of them was grown, Viper noticed, a silent young woman of the Argonian race—she was no longer a child, for Cadmir had already started taking pieces from her. She was missing one finger, and three of her toes on one foot, and there were marks on the ridge of her tail that suggested whole bones had been removed, for it dragged heavily on the floor behind her every shuffling step. Both horns on her head had been sawed and filed away.

Like the other children the shambling woman disappeared—yet Viper was taken by surprise when she returned, and there was something in her hand with the absent digit. A scrap of paper. The woman came inside and held it up for her to read.

 _I know who you are and why you're here. I can get you out, but I need your help._

Viper glanced at the woman, and for a moment she lost her fear. "No," she breathed, "no, this cannot be. Nobody escapes…"

The Argonian closed her eyes with a pained sigh and overturned the piece of parchment. She went to the wall and began to write, and suddenly Viper understood.

"Wait, wait a moment; you're just a conduit, right?" The woman stopped and nodded. "Who really spoke to me?"

When the parchment was presented again, there was one name: Nevada.

"Nevada…who is she?"

The channeler drew an imaginary line down the length of her snout and tapped her left cheek. _The woman with only half a face,_ Viper realized, remembering the hideous mutilation Cadmir had done upon his victim. "But I don't understand," she breathed. "We can't get out of here." Once more she was consumed with dread, and it ate away at her insides.

The woman left again, pausing outside Viper's cell to burn the parchment in the torch's flames. She came back again, brandished another bit of paper scrawled in hasty writing.

 _I have talents and you have talents that compliment one another. Together, we can; by ourselves, it's impossible. Nobody escapes from this hell alone._

Hope; a glimpse of it, in this dark and desolate oblivion. Viper drank its ambrosia greedily. "I'm game," she hissed. She thought of Ollos again and shuddered. _Four days have gone already; within a week he will be here, that was what Cadmir said. For all I know he could be here tomorrow._ "What do I have to do?"

The channeler went and returned.

 _Wait for me._

"Wait for you?" Viper gasped. _No, waiting will not get us out of here. Waiting is going to kill me._ "Ollos could be here tomorrow morning! We need to get out tonight!"

The conduit flipped the parchment over; it seemed the other end had anticipated her disbelief and already had a response prepared.

 _Weeks ago a serpent stole into a noble's affair and kissed a dragon. She disappeared from the city minutes later in possession of a crystal pendant bound in silver runes. That was what gave Ollos the right to swift travel. No dragon will bend its wing for him so long as that stone is not in his possession. Time is bought for you—so wait for me._

Viper read and reread the message, and the hope in her grew. She found a shred of her courage, swallowed down her dread, and nodded. "I'll wait," she whispered.

The Argonian nodded and disappeared, and she did not return that night.

Viper was woken by a shadow at her cell, and its chill made her head snap up in a surge of terror. _Cadmir._ The Dragonlord stood alone outside her cage, a wicked little smile upon his face. _Does he know about the messages? Is Ollos…?_ She very nearly lost her nerve, but instinct still had some hold over her and she kept silent.

"You look disturbed, my sweet," he purred. "It is as if it has already come to your attention."

 _What_ , thought Viper nervously, _what has come to attention?_ Then the dread returned, and hope disappeared in a tide of despair. _Oh gods old and new, Ollos…_

"I think you already know, yes, you do," Cadmir smiled. "Ollos has sent a messenger ahead of him; he has just departed _Toorgol_. Do you know where _Toorgol_ is found, little snake? It is located in _Hilgevild_ beside the border of _Bromgevild_." Viper knew what he'd said; it was the last midhold town before the northhold border. _And Gahriknaar is but a day's journey…he will be here in the coming dawn._ "'Tis a great pity," said Cadmir, "that our time knowing each other is almost concluded. I did so enjoy looking into those beautiful eyes of yours. I know exactly where I could put them, if Ollos would be so kind as to spare them. Maybe he will grant me privilege to your remains. That would be a treat."

He advanced into the cell, and Viper flinched as he drew closer. The cold cells grew all the colder in his evil presence. "Or even your skin," he whispered, and she shut her eyes and turned away, unable to meet his fathomless stare. "Your skin is…delightful. I always need lovely skin. My creations wear through them so quickly. So quickly."

His fingertip traced the tattoo on her wrist, following the shape of her coiling snake. "If not for this, you would be flawless, and I do not say that to everyone who I place in the cold cells. Be honoured, sweet," he breathed, and ice seemed to form upon her. "You are indeed a prize worthy of a Dragonlord."

Viper only found the strength to stir again long after he'd gone.

Something snapped in her then. That was when she knew she was mad. Every shadow had Ollos's face. Every whisper spoke in his voice. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his, burning with desire. She remembered the way she'd kissed him, and how he stiffened beneath her as the poison took hold of him; she flipped him so easily upon his back, stared and smiled into his frozen face as she slipped his pendant from his throat.

He'd vowed to find her. Her fate was sealed, that was what he'd said. _Of course spoke true—why wouldn't he? He is a hand of Alduin, the World-Eater, the bane of kings and men. Ollos has been a Dragonlord for almost as long as this Era has existed. I was born in these times. How was I ever to escape him?_

She remembered telling Cenrin that the Guild had dealt with the blighters before; yes, the Guild had stolen from such creatures—but when there were others, and before her time. Of the first five of Alduin, the first Dragonlords to ever rise in Tamriel, only two remained, and Ollos was one of them—there were others far lesser than they scattered throughout the world, but their names were of insignificance beyond Skyrim's borders. They did not matter, their responsibilities lay elsewhere and over other cities and people; the three to be found in Skyrim alone, ancient Vylornar and Ollos, and the youngest Cadmir, who had come to power a mere half century ago, were enough to fear.

 _They were lesser, they were always lesser,_ she thought faintly, _the ones whose names the Guild does not even really recall. But Ollos…Ollos was a mistake that never should have been made. The Guild was bought with a promise of sixteen priceless artifacts—they must have been delivered, both what it cost my life to steal and what my sacrifice was rewarded with…Cenrin is probably very pleased. He made more of a profit than a loss. What more should I have expected from thieves? Thieves! I thought they were a family to me!_

And she'd been a fool for thinking it.

 _I spent my entire life as an orphan. That should have told me something. I can't rely on anyone but myself!_

Her thoughts continued very much in this manner, full of regret and shame and terror and memory…and just when it seemed they mounted to the point when she was going to break down yet again…

…her madness took a strange new turn. _Oh there once was a hero name Ragnar the Red who came riding to Whiterun from ol' Rorikstead…_

Like a child she giggled at the silly bard's tale. She hummed the entire song, and then all the others she'd learned from the smugglers who'd taken her as far as _Ahgelingrah_. She retold all the stories she'd heard—how a modest slave-turned-freedman won a challenge against an accomplished Imperial smith; how an arrogant noble was taught humility by an Orc manservant as he prepared to fight for rights to what became Orsinium; the tale of Eslaf Erol and his adventures as a beggar, thief, warrior (of sorts) and king. The smugglers had told many stories and she found herself reliving every single one of them in the cold cell.

All in attempt to keep Ollos out of her head, to deny the inevitable.

The children came to feed her that night, as they always did, and she quietly drank each proffered spoonful, relishing every mouthful. She wept bitterly when they finally departed. Once more she was alone, and she'd had her last meal. She'd lost her thoughts as well, for she couldn't return to the stories, and each spluttered venture ended more miserably than the last. She wouldn't sleep this night. She'd only wake up and find Ollos standing over her with a smile that spoke all too plainly of a promise about to be fulfilled…

She heard the rattle of keys and jolted in terror, saw a shape creep into her cell, brandishing the keys. _No,_ she wanted to say, _no, it's too soon, leave me be, please, spare me!_ She struggled against her chains, every movement stiff and awkward, and when her fear finally became her and she tried to scream, a hand clapped over her mouth, silencing her.

Viper stared at the child in terror…and saw no child at all. It was the shuffling woman. When the realization was made the four-fingered hand was withdrawn and pressed to her scaled lips, soundlessly urging her to be quiet. The keys rattled and the trappings squeaked in protest, but they sprang open and Viper fell forward into the Argonian's arms.

At first she could barely stand; her legs hadn't taken her weight in days. After a moment the woman stepped back and Viper found her feet as she leaned against the chilled walls. The return of circulation was painful at first, but that soon eased after a few seconds of rubbing. The shuffling woman made her way to the front of the cell, beckoning.

Viper crept after her. "It's happening?" she whispered, barely daring to believe it.

The woman nodded, gestured for her to wait, and shambled down the hall of cells. _Wait for me_ had been the last order Viper had been given, so she waited, trying to control her shaking. She turned to the torch and pressed herself beside it, sighing in amazement as the heat of the flames rolled over her. It was a remarkable feeling, the warmth, after so long without any…

"Stop doing that, you idiot!" Rough hands grasped her and dragged her away. Viper spun around in alarm, staring at a scarred face made all the more hideously deformed in the firelight. "By Sithis, you're stupid—no wonder Ollos is after you."

Viper blinked in recognition. "You're Nevada."

"And you're the snake everyone wants to kill." The half-faced Nord turned away, down the corridor that led to the dungeon's exit. "Come on, we have to get out of here—and for both our sakes, you'd better snap out of your delirium. Focus on reality. We are getting _out of here_ , but if your head and senses remain in that cell the both of us are going to die. Zeer, lead the way."

The Argonian lurched past them, stumbling over herself, yet she scurried up the stairs quite swiftly, her bare feet whispering over the slick stone steps. Viper could feel a sliver of desperate hope growing in her. _It's not yet over._

"Why?" she breathed, heart racing, as the half-faced Nord followed the shambling woman with all the silent grace of a thief. "Why help me?"

"We'll help each other," Nevada answered, fixing her with a one-eyed stare so penetrating that Viper was taken aback. "I can get you out of here and to safety—and my only price is that I get free as well. It works out on both ends."

"How do you propose we escape?"

"With more help." With a twisted smile—half her mouth was missing—the blemished Nord nodded to the Argonian. "She knows how we get out of here."

Viper glanced at the young woman, slipping over every step. "Who _is_ she?"

Bitterness sharpened Nevada's whispered answer. "Vazeera served her childhood under that psychopath Cadmir. She was orphaned, of course; in this world an orphan is never missed. So she grew up in hell. When she turned old enough, Cadmir started taking from her. It was bones he wanted from her, and in a display of 'kindness' he only took ones that would still allow her impeded movement; finger-bones, toe-bones, the vertebra in her tail, and some of her ribs. But he took out her tongue when she was still a kid."

Viper was starting to feel sick. "What for?"

"Retribution," the Nord growled. "She and her brother served him as children. When her brother disappeared, she was questioned, and cruelly—but Cadmir is no Ollos. The only torture he knows is removing pieces of the body, not damaging them. But he decided that if she wouldn't talk to him, she wouldn't talk to anyone again—and I needn't say more."

"But her brother didn't just disappear, did he?" said Viper, understanding. "He escaped."

Nevada nodded. "And we're taking a page out of his book. If I ever get out of this pit, I'm going to shake his hand, whoever and wherever he is."

They came to the door that led into the cold cells. The Argonian pressed her head against the door, listening, then opened it with infinite care to a lightless room beyond. "Good work with the candles," the Nord woman breathed. "But Cadmir rarely sleeps. We have an hour, maybe, to get out of this hell. Come on."

Viper followed them, and her heart leapt into her throat and resumed its pounding there. She knew where they were now; the room above. There were no windows, and in the faint light she could only make out silhouettes of his tools. Perhaps it was better she did not see the station where Cadmir removed articles from his captives. Whenever she lingered, it was the defaced Nord who grasped her and cuffed her head, snapping her from a growing daze. " _Focus_ , damn you. You've only heard the hell that ensues up here."

She followed her unlikely saviours through another door and climbed another staircase. Viper began to remember—in truth, days weren't so long ago. She remembered that there were two more floors above before they were level with the ground.

"This is where I first have need of you, thief," the Nord hissed when the stairs ended and another door was presented. "Ever since Cadmir lost a captive, he's had this underground locked up tighter than a miser's purse. Now I used to be good at lockpicking until about three months ago—" She brandished her hand, which was revealed to be as flayed as her face. "—when this happened."

Viper closed her eyes to spare the grisly sight. "How long have you been here?"

"Just over four moons. After I befriended Zeer, I tried to escape three times during the first. After he took a fancy to the flesh on my arm, I never had a chance. Zeer's keys can't unlock this door, so we have to pick our way to freedom." Nevada curled what was left of her lip. "It's been one hell of a time enduring Cadmir for three fucking months while I waited for another opportunity to come by—and then you came along, the new occupant of a cold cell who'd be spared the flaying knives, but was promised to a fate and a Dragonlord just as terrible.

"So I put another plan into motion. First I verified that you were in with the plan; then Zeer unlocked my cuffs long enough for me to fashion this." She passed a crude lockpick into Viper's palms. "If you're really as good as they say, and I hope to hell that they speak truthfully, you'll get this and any other locked door open. I just hope you're not so fearsick as to fail and get us both killed."

Viper scowled and twirled the lockpick in fingers that had rediscovered their dexterity. Already she was feeling more like herself, the infamous thief whose name would go down in history. "Just let me concentrate," she said, creeping to the lock.

When she wasn't seducing, she was infiltrating, and sometimes contracts called for both. In her time as a Guild apprentice, lockpicking was an essential ability. If a thief couldn't pick a lock, it was an instant show to the door, especially with such contest for a place in the Guild. Cenrin had wanted to establish a secondary sanctuary somewhere in Skyrim to keep up with all the hopefuls, but profit was slow and the Guild itself lacked the resources to make one happen, so the Cistern remained the sole centre of Thieves Guild operations.

Moral of the story; she could pick a lock. After years of training, hardship and demand, she could pick a lock damned well.

Within minutes of careful listening, rotations and test-picks, Viper finally located the weak spot. She twisted the pick and tapped, and the lock surrendered to the gentle touch. There was a faint, affirmative _click_ and the tension on the handle eased. "Good enough?" she inquired.

"Good." There was a light in Nevada's eye. "But we aren't free yet." She turned to the Argonian, who pressed two bundles into her arms. "You truly want this, then?" the Nord asked.

The woman nodded. "What is she doing?" Viper hissed, as she began to stumble back the way they'd come.

"Going back."

"But she has a chance to escape!"

"She tried to escape once, and failed—that was just a few years into her service here. Now she fears and feels she is bound to this place. Her mind cannot leave these shadowed halls, even if her body can." The Nord sighed. "Poor wretched soul. She will delay Cadmir long enough for us to get a head start—that may just save our lives, but we must move fast. I've never known that monster to sleep."

She grasped Viper's shoulder. "Are you focused? Is your mind with your body?"

Viper glanced at the lockpick, at the door she'd unlocked, then back into the Nord's one fierce eye; and despite her brooding terror, she grinned.

"I escaped Ollos once," she whispered. "I'm ready to do it again."

Nevada's twisted smile returned. "Something tells me I'm going to like you—which means I really hope you are prepared to get out of here; from right now, it's a race for our lives. You thieves better know how to run. Sanctuary is a half-night's flight across the freezing plains of the north, but only when we reach safety can we be confident of our freedom."

 **d|b**


	28. XXVII - Kaarn Stormbear

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

It didn't take Ross long to lose track of how many times he'd slipped and stumbled over the precarious mountain path. The Raiders showed him no sympathy, despite the fact that they'd been the ones to blind him, so whenever he fell they simply dragged him back up.

The trick, the freerider told himself, was to keep moving his feet.

The night came and went, and nobody suggested stopping to rest. Ross hadn't dared to ask. Even as fatigue weighed down upon his shoulders and made any action at all a draining effort, he kept moving. The ground rose and fell beneath his feet, sometimes so steeply he lost his balance and thought he was going to plunge to certain death down a chasm; but the Raiders were as surefooted as mountain goats, and confident of wherever they were leading him.

So when at last Ross felt the first watery rays of morning penetrate the dogging chill of the mountains, he was almost relieved, but further reminded of his exhaustion. "I'm sure you have me well and thoroughly lost at this point," he hinted.

"The first thing you'll see when we take that bag off your head will be Stormbear himself."

The Raiders proved obstinate like this, until Ross was to the limit of his patience and solemnly promised himself that he wouldn't be dealing with these stubborn Nords again.

After a little while one of his escorts announced, "We're nearing the encampment now, freerider. Another ten minutes and you'll be in it. One of our sentries has noticed our return and departed to inform Kaarn of your arrival. He'll be expecting you by the time you make it down."

"Down from where?" Ross asked guardedly.

The Raider's response was to laugh and say, "If you're afraid of heights, be glad you're wearing the sack."

So Ross descended a sharp dip in the trail constantly contesting with a nagging apprehension of a long and fatal fall if one step went wrongly. As he neared the encampment he began to discern sounds that seemed appropriate; voices barking orders, the clanging of steel, the rasp of a grindstone, the flapping of tent covers. These grew in volume as the trail began to even out, and in a few minutes more they surrounded him entirely.

He sensed interested eyes on him and flexed his wrists, grateful at least that the Raiders hadn't shamed him any further by binding him like a prisoner. That was how he felt nonetheless, but what could he do? He said he'd come quietly, and apparently this was their definition of that; ensuring that no stranger knew of their exact whereabouts in the mountains.

Then, quite abruptly, a hand grabbed his shoulder and stopped him. "Take a knee," rasped the hand's owner.

Ross warily did so as he heard a tent open a few paces beyond.

"Be honoured, freerider," the same Raider announced, and suddenly the bag was whipped off his head. Ross blinked against the sudden rush of light. "Before you stands the true Lord of Windhelm and rightful prince of Eastmarch: Kaarn Stormbear, second of his name, Ysgramor's Heir, with kingsblood of steam and stone in his veins."

After the titles were presented, Ross found himself staring up at this infamous chieftain of the Raiders himself.

At first glance, Ross thought he was a man; but at a closer look, he realized that this so-called Ysgramor's Heir was still a boy; he looked to have only just left adolescence behind. But he'd grown well. Fair-skinned, fair-haired and pale-eyed, Kaarn was a living embodiment of his kinfolk. He was tall and broad of shoulder, his shoulders draped in bear hide over his skin of steel chain. His flaxen hair hung long past his ears, but went no further below his stern jaw, and the beginning of a beard was visible around his lips and upon his cheeks. Though young, his face was austere, with creases around his eyes, and his weathered look speaking of a life of hardship.

Yet Ross had a feeling the boy would grow to resemble his uncle, who'd looked much the same, only older.

Kaarn's brow furrowed deeply. "What is this?" he asked his men. "I was told a freerider was coming to speak with me, not a captive. Help him up."

His voice was deep and true of authority; Ross was promptly stood upright.

"Now, freerider," said Stormbear, "what business do you have with me?"

"As does any freerider when he seeks an individual." With a long glance at his Raider escorts, Ross slipped a hand into the pocket on his belt and withdrew the (slightly battered) letter. "I come with a message."

Kaarn frowned as he accepted the folded parchment. "Who sent you to me and what does this concern?"

 _He's asking all the right questions,_ Ross thought. _All the rumours forewarned me of a boy playing at war. So far I haven't seen him._ "A contract of mine took me into the greenwood," he answered. "Once there, I was called before their warden. The message is from him."

Kaarn unfolded the letter. "What would the southhold warden have to say? So long as his allegiance lies with dragons, he is an enemy of us."

"He would not have entrusted me with that letter if he didn't have anything meaningful to say to you."

A minute or so passed in silence as the Raider chieftain read the writing on the parchment—and as he did, a subtle change came over him. Ross saw it first in his eyes, then in the way the scowl lessened upon his face, but his thoughts he kept well hidden. At last he folded it once more and said, "It seems we have much to discuss, you and I. Come into my tent." His attention briefly turned to his men. "Mralki, Hodar, I thank you for your troubles. Get some food and rest. Naltheim, if you could be so kind, see the freerider's horse is attended to."

All three dipped their heads and strode away, one leading Ross's steed deeper into the encampment. He hoped the long night's walk hadn't upset his injury. For now, however, he could not think of himself or his faithful mount, and he followed the young bear into his tent.

It was much quieter and dimmer inside, but candlelight kept the early morning gloom at bay. Kaarn circled to the other side of the table in the centre of the pavilion, where Ross noticed a large map of the easthold dominated its surface, pinned and tacked in places. "Strange tidings indeed," the Raider murmured, as he set the letter down on one corner of the map. "It seems I was wrong about the south warden. Or am I being played for a fool, freerider? Does the Greensmile genuinely offer his allegiance?"

"I may not be the best one to tell you that, my lord—freeriders take no sides."

"It's not your fidelity I'm asking for, it's your opinion—and drop the formality. I am not your lord, so you needn't refer to me as such."

"As you wish." Ross was impressed at how well-spoken the lad was. _He speaks like a man twice his age—his uncle taught him well._ "And Halling Greensmile spoke plainly to me, more so than I've heard any dragonman before. He was sincere to the point of fervency. When I asked for his purpose behind this act of treachery against the dragon cause, he spoke of change coming to this land, and seemed to believe that you would be a herald of such a thing."

Kaarn was silent, brooding on this answer. His eyes fell on the letter again. "I think I believe you, freerider," he said at last. "The sincerity you claim he spoke with echoes in every word in this message to me. His heart lies in the dream that Skyrim will once more belong to the Nords. His faith with the dragon cause is lost and now rests in me—but can I trust a man who would so willingly betray the ideals he pledged loyalty to for another?"

He leaned over his desk with a deep sigh. "I have few enough men as it is, and I will not risk their lives upon this peculiar turn. I feel I should refuse him, but it would be folly to reject an offer of friendship."

"You cannot keep hiding in the mountains," said Ross, tempted to voice his thoughts aloud. "It is only a matter of time before the dragons discover you here—somewhere in these mountains lies the throne of the World-Eater himself. Every rumour I've heard of late claims you are about to launch an assault on that citadel in retaliation for…" He hesitated.

Kaarn looked up sharply. "For what?"

If Ross was not mistaken, a hint of uncertainty sounded in the Stormbear prince. _He does not know…or he does not want to believe._

With reluctance that surprised him, he said, "In retaliation for your uncle's death."

Kaarn straightened slowly. "So it's true, then?" His voice had taken on a very different note. "My uncle…when he was taken, they…"

Ross lowered his eyes. "I had the hapless privilege of attending his _vaxnilz_ when I stopped in _Ahgelingrah_."

"Gods…"

The prince of Eastmarch sank into the nearest chair, ashen-faced. For a long time, he did not speak.

"I'm sorry about what happened to him," said Ross quietly. "He died boldly, with courage, and honour." The horror of the _vaxnilz_ was yet to truly leave him. "But I feel you ought to know; to dragons, men and citizens, he proclaimed how deeply he believed in the cause he died for—and he seemed certain that with his death you would be emboldened."

"That was always what he was like," the young bear murmured, "loyal, one might say almost to a fault." It was plain the confirmation of his uncle's demise had shaken him. "I was informed of his capture in the Asodar Fords among these accursed mountains…and in the weeks that followed I was certain my uncle would return. He spent his entire life living this rebellion, like every Stormbear that preceded him. But it was whispered that a _vaxnilz_ had taken place…and I didn't want to believe." He shook his head, suddenly seeming as vulnerable as a child. "Now I must accept the truth. Ulfric is dead, and every Raider will look to me as their general and inspiration."

"Were you not both before?" Ross dared to ask.

Kaarn lifted weary blue eyes. "Since I was old enough to stand," he said, "my uncle cared for me. My mother died before I remembered her, my father slain in a dragonhunt near Darkwater Crossing; so he was my guardian, and unto me, his sole heir, he would bestow the solemn duty of our family.

"For as long as clan Stormbear has existed, freerider, we have fought for our rightful home as Nords of Old, willing defilers of this new empire the dragons have forged in blood and fire. The mantle of our rebellion passed down generation to generation—uncle Ulfric upheld it, and throughout my life he was forever preparing me to do the same. He taught me how to wield a blade, to skin a deer, to read and write. With war inevitable, he was our general, and since my sixteenth birthday, he began to pass such wisdom to me—my army of Nords of Old, noble warriors determined to see Windhelm seated with a Jarl once more and Eastmarch freed from the dragons' oppression. It is a dream that has kept the old ways of my people alive, Imperial.

"So no, I was not both before." Kaarn stood and glowered at the map of the easthold beneath his fingertips. "I still had much to learn. Ulfric had a natural mind for this bloody game of death and conquest, and endless patience. I attended every war council he called and held to every word spoken—but now I fear that it is not enough. A great legacy has become my burden and I fear now of failing it."

Ross recounted the _vaxnilz_ and said what he knew. "Your uncle believed you were ready."

Kaarn looked quickly at him. "He spoke?"

"He did. Before dragoneye and mortal, he proclaimed his death would rally the Raiders and begin the inevitable war." Ross glanced at the map. "Rebellion never stays quiet for long."

A light lit the young bear's eye, and he straightened. "Then to honour him, this must be done. Since Windhelm's fall, Stormbears have grown this rebellion in secret and preparation; now it must start." Strength returned to Kaarn's voice, and he spoke with the uncanny power of a kind that did not befit a youth. "To begin, I must consider the Greensmile's proposal. Freerider, I have imposed on your patience, but I ask you to wait a little longer. I may have need of you to hurry my response."

A part of Ross had expected this, but he still groaned inwardly at the thought of returning to the notorious greenwood so soon. "My patience would stretch better if I had a little refreshment," he suggested, recalling his gnawing hunger.

Kaarn smiled. "Of course. I'm yet to break my fast myself. We'll eat together."

Food was sent for and came swiftly; it was hot, to Ross's veiled delight. It did not take him long to revive on bread, wine, and a haunch of roasted goat. Raiders were overcautious folk but hospitable once they trusted you, it seemed.

After a few minutes Kaarn said, "I apologize if my men were uncongenial with you. They are good warriors, but regard every stranger with hostility I cannot blame."

Ross snorted into his tankard. "'Uncongenial' hardly begins to describe it."

Kaarn's eyes twinkled. "Thought you were a dragonman, did they?"

"Completely."

"Ah. Again, my apologies. Please, harbour no resentment for them; they are descendants of those that witnessed the murder of their leader and the sacking of their home. Bitterness and anger root as deeply in their souls as loyalty and honour. No visitor is treated kindly."

"It's not in my nature to hold grudges," said Ross, though he was sorely tempted to with the one who'd strangled him. "You receive many visitors?"

Kaarn's serious demeanour resumed. "There are times when the rumours of us inspire heart and recklessness in our people beyond Eastmarch. If they are fortunate enough to escape the attention of the dragons hunting us, they try to find us, and often succeed in doing so—our scouts are everywhere, and it does not take them too long to discern whether the stranger in our territory is potential friend or threat. Either is greeted with hostility, but we do not turn away a willing heart."

"Many support you," Ross remembered, thinking of his conversation with the innkeeper in _Ahgelingrah_ and the lumberjack in _Gosvahgraag_. "They share your dream of a liberated Skyrim. The autumnhold, southhold and most of the midhold is well aware of the Raiders' rebellion, and word will continue to spread until the entirety of the province is aware of you."

"Then more may join us."

"Not many can survive the roads." It felt strange and even a little wrong counselling the Raider chieftain, but Ross had to say what he knew. "Perhaps it isn't wise waiting for them to come to you—maybe you should go to them."

Kaarn surveyed Ross thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. "It is not a bad thought, freerider," he noted. "These mountains prove a treacherous home, and the tundra is barren. But how to continue our fight for Eastmarch outside the Eastmarch territory? Our efforts have been focused on taking control of the three settlements outside Windhelm in one simultaneous attack—and from there we may launch siege against the parody of _Nidrinnilz_ —and once the lands of my people are returned, and a firm centre established, we may begin our reclaiming of the other holds."

The plan was noble, but falling apart at the seams. "Was this your uncle's plan?"

Kaarn narrowed his eyes. "No. In light of recent events, it is mine."

 _He is young,_ Ross remembered, _still new to war._ "As a freerider I say only what I hear, but I can hear protest inside of me, and I am inclined to voice it. This movement is folly. When the dragons learn that the easthold—"

"Eastmarch, freerider." Kaarn's voice was hard. "Name the world for what it was and will be again."

Ross dipped his head. "Very well. When the dragons learn Eastmarch is no longer in their control, they will simply return, in greater and greater number, until it burns as it did in the initial purge. The settlements will be destroyed and Windhelm once more razed to rubble and smoke—and when they know when to find you, Stormbear, they will kill you, and the rebellion would be lost."

"You speak boldly indeed, freerider," said Kaarn, though he did not sound angry. "But there is much yet that you do not know." For a long moment he surveyed Ross through furrowed eyebrows, then asked, "You go about saying what you hear, sir—but I ask you now, can you keep a secret?"

"I carried a message from the Greensmile that would have meant his and his people's death if word of it had ever fallen into the wrong hands. Throughout my journey, not a soul learned of its existence. Even when prompted at swordpoint by your own men, I refused to share the purpose of my finding you, and kept Greensmile's message concealed from even their eyes until it was placed into your hands. So yes—I am practiced with both the spoken and the secret word."

Kaarn nodded thoughtfully. "You are honest, so I trust you will keep silent of this." He set his goblet down and rose, crossing to the corner of his tent. "But before I begin, I ask you this, freerider; what do you know of my clan's history?"

"Only rumoured word," Ross admitted, "and which cannot entirely be trusted."

"The rumours we send among the people do us favour. I am well aware what people think of me, that I am young and naïve to the ways of war." Ross sat up in surprise. "Among my spies and scouts who dwell as plainclothes and seem ordinary to common eyes, I encourage these rumours—if the people believe it, so will the dragonmen, and so they will underestimate me. I am not my uncle, but nor am I a child, and I know how this game works. I am fully aware which perils will cost us dearly, which will reward us and further our goal, and which would have resulted only in disaster.

"This was always the intention; we cannot begin this rebellion as our forebear began his. Our enemy is far stronger and far more dangerous, so we must be cunning about how we begin this. It has been a resistance nurtured by the young clan Stormbear for centuries. Both began the instant Windhelm was lost in the purge. The people believe that the clan has taken the name Stormbear in honour of the Eastmarch bear that we fly on our banners of blue—we let them believe that. When they are ready for the truth of our lineage, then they will learn, and discover that the time of heroes is not yet over."

Ross frowned. "You think yourself a hero?"

"I think myself more than a face of this rebellion." Kaarn returned with a small, polished box of ebony in his hands. "Even you underestimate me, freerider, and I fully expect you to. A little family history, then; after the Dragonborn turned, chaos reigned supreme across the land. The Night of Silence sent shockwaves through the entirety of Tamriel, but it was a rally of all dragonkind, which rose to Alduin and Ysmir the Unworthy both. Skyrim became the seat of the dragons' power, and Skyrim burned.

"Many resistances rose and fell throughout the bloody years that followed—the land was already torn with civil war between the old Empire and the Stormcloaks of the east. This you know already through stories and history now set in ash. The first of the first five Dragonlords of Alduin came to power: the Altmer Analor, formerly of the Thalmor, dispatched by his First Emissary to treat with the dragons. However, Analor turned just as the Dragonborn did, and won the dragons' approval when he presented the head of his former ambassador to the Dread. Thus did Analor become the first of the Dragonlords, and he carved his name Nordsbane into history in blood as blow after blow was laid to the roots of my people's culture—the Companions of Whiterun he vanquished, and the mead hall Jorrvaskr, built of one of the ships of Ysgramor's ancient fleet, he torched to the solemn earth. One by one the Jarls were slain, five of whom by his hand—and among those Jarls was the one who led a side of the civil war that had ensued during the Dragonborn's rise to power: Ulfric Stormcloak, already fighting to liberate Skyrim from the hold of oppressors.

"Stormcloak's rebellion lasted two more years after the Night of Silence until his forces were weakened to the point when Analor could storm Windhelm with but six dragons. The Dragonlord killed every man who barred his way to the Palace of Kings and fought Ulfric in single combat. Stormcloak was slain upon the throne of Eastmarch, and the remaining four dragons—two had been killed prior to the duel—made even the old stones of Windhelm burn, so great was their wrath at the loss of their kin.

"But this is where recorded history ends. What the dragons and Dragonlords or the world itself did not realize was that clan Stormcloak was not so vanquished as the world believed. Ulfric had a mistress whom he had come to dearly love—she appears not in history, but the Nords of Old name her Lady Tempest, the Storm Queen. Aware of the strength of Analor and the fading of his own crumbling armies, Ulfric sent the majority of his soldiers to escort her into the safety of the mountains, but it was after the sacking of Windhelm the mistress discovered that she was pregnant with her lover's unborn child.

"Upon learning this, the remainder of Ulfric's army pledged themselves and their every descendant to the protection of the Stormcloak heir as the first and last of the short-lived Stormguard, for they existed only in the time of the Lady Tempest. After the conquest of Tamriel was complete, the Fifth Era began, and Ulfric's son was born, they became the Nords of Old, who devoted themselves to a life of exile and rebellion against their oppressor where none else would make a stand. The pledge that was made survived still; the first duty of the Nords of Old concerned the survival of the ancient clan Stormcloak."

"Only you no longer call yourselves Stormcloaks," observed Ross, enlightened.

"No," Kaarn said. "Clan Stormcloak died with Windhelm that night. It was Lady Tempest who first began clan Stormbear, with the birth of her son. Her next words are famous among us. To her Stormguard she declared, 'After his noble sire, his name is Ulfric. He is the heart of the storm you vow to protect. He is the Bear of Eastmarch with steam and stone in his veins. The oppressors will see us as heathens and beasts—so that is what we shall be, until the lands forsworn of us are ours once more. He is Ulfric Stormbear, first of his name, the thriving spirit of the east!'

"And with those words, clan Stormbear was founded in the snow of the land and the blood of the patriarch clan that died for our freedom. Every Stormbear became the heart of the rebellion, the inspiration of the Nords of Old. As the Dragonborn became the Dread—to us, Ysmir the Unworthy, the fouled heir of Talos Himself—we Stormbears became Ysgramor's Heirs. Clan Stormcloak's bloodline is said to trace back to the Five Hundred Companions of Ysgramor himself, so we let the title hang, whether we are true descendants or not."

Ross was impressed. _There is certainly more to these men that meets the eye._ "So you continue your forefather's fight for Skyrim's liberty."

The young bear's eyes hardened. "It never ended with Stormcloak. Our enemy has only changed. This rebellion has ensued in secret across Eastmarch for over a century, as my ancestors prepared this brooding war for the generation to come. The Nords of Old have memories as deep as the stones of the mountains—so we have knowledge that in light of the purge, the rest of the world has quite forgotten. One such shred of knowledge, freerider, is of the Thieves Guild."

Ross frowned. "Like every other Guild, they were destroyed in the purge."

"Not quite. Unlike every other Guild, they survived, as they have survived for centuries before the dragons' return; in the shadows, in secrecy. Shadows draw shadows. My ancestors collected across the changed land a payment that they couldn't refuse—for a task that only the greatest price could pay. We paid them sixteen precious stones of immense value to them, collected across the decades, for this."

The ebony box in Kaarn's hands was opened, and a gleaming purple pendant, encircled in embossed silver, was lifted into the candlelight.

"What is it?" Ross felt nothing but suspicion for that necklace. Even from a distance, he felt an evil energy surrounding it.

Kaarn's eyes gleamed. "This, freerider, is what will ensure the victories to come. It is what the dragons name _Sogaalmundov_ , the Jewel of the Dragonlord, or more simply the dragonjewel—this is a Dragonlord's equivalent to a badge of office. Formerly, this dragonjewel belonged to one Ollos."

Ross gaped in amazement. _So it is true…the Viper was so daring as to steal from Dragonlord Ollos himself._ "The Thieves Guild is responsible for this."

"They are. Sixteen stones they couldn't refuse, for one of the three dragonjewels to be found in Skyrim. Do not miscalculate its power or value, freerider; Ollos was one of the first five Dragonlords of Alduin. While Astarr the Bonereaver, Analor Nordsbane and Nisenthril the Fifth passed from life, Ollos and Vylornar remain the eldest, and the most notorious, of the Dragonlords—and this dragonjewel is the eldest of the two. These stones are said to be infused with the energies of a Shout that once defeated the World-Eater in the first Dragon Wars—a power all dragons fear—and each of these is crafted by the Dread, who possesses knowledge of that Shout; and while Dragonlords possess these, dragons are inclined to carry them upon their backs as wingsteeds, allowing for swift and unchallenged transport across the entirety of the continent."

Kaarn turned the gleaming crystal between his fingers. "Therefore these pendants are known by another name; _golsekroz_ , the Rendingstone."

Ross had been greatly mistaken about the Raiders. _Their true power is not so much in strength as knowledge, and that is a dangerous weapon indeed._ "You know much about this artifact you've acquired," he said.

"My ancestors have had a century to learn of it," Kaarn answered. "After Analor and Astarr, Ollos was bequeathed a dragonjewel. This was still in the day of the first Ulfric Stormbear, and he knew at once that the jewels were needed for us to have any hope succeeding against the dragons. The Dragonlords' prowess in combat exceeded ours, as Analor proved only too well, so Ulfric the First knew that the Thieves Guild would be our only means of success. However, to persuade them to risk the wrath of the one of the most dangerous Dragonlords in existence, we had to offer them a price that they could not refuse. He and his descendants spent their whole lives preparing that price, and at last, after over a century, it has paid off with this Rendingstone that from the beginning, Ulfric the First knew we had to have."

Ross frowned. "Why this particular crystal?"

"There is no equal to it, freerider, not in all this world, and there was no other worth the effort. The power of its two elders died with the deaths of their masters decades ago, Cadmir's is too young to serve our purposes, and Vylornar's is unattainable; that Dragonlord has built a friendship with his own wingsteed to the point where he no longer needs to wear it for the privilege of travel by dragonback. It was always going to be Ollos's pendant." Kaarn replaced it in its box with a sigh. "I only wish uncle Ulfric could have seen what our forefathers worked their whole lives to gain."

He held the freerider's cautious stare. "The Rendingstone is the weapon, and my uncle's murder marks an end to the hiding, a true beginning to this fight. Within months, the rumours of me will have changed, as will have the dragons' impression of the Raiders. We have slain dragonmen and killed the monsters where we could, but in idle, unpredictable attacks as men of the wilds, bandits and outlaws in our own rightful home. No longer. The rebellion begins in earnest."

"And that's how you're certain your plan will succeed?" asked Ross, with a nod at the ebony coffer. "With a single stone capable of bending dragons' will?"

"It does not bend their will," answered Kaarn Stormbear, "it grounds them—and when grounded, they are at their most disadvantaged. With a _golsekroz_ , no dragonhunt will be too great for us."

 _So these are the Raiders' great weapons,_ Ross thought, relieving his awe with another sip of wine. _A Stormcloak heir, an army dedicated to his protection, a Dragonlord's pendant, and knowledge of the eras that came before._ Once more he thought of the Greensmile's words, and smiled ruefully to himself. _Change is indeed coming, old man—but how you knew Kaarn Stormbear was one so worthy to follow, that is your secret still, and I am glad I do not know._

"You will keep silent of this, freerider?" inquired Kaarn.

Ross bowed his head. "On my honour and continued neutrality among dragonmen and the people."

Kaarn's smile turned wry. "It cannot last, you know. The peace in this land is false at best. Mankind will never be truly subdued by the dragons, not so long as there is a single shred of hope. The Nords of Old will demonstrate that when we liberate Eastmarch. Then the people will rise. When you eventually leave here, you may spread another rumour. Tell them that the winds of war stir in the east."

Beneath his furrowed brow, he said, "You are welcome here, freerider. Rest for as long as you need to. My men will show you to a sleeping place. I will call for you again when my response to the Greensmile's offer of allegiance is ready."

"You are most generous—"

Ross broke off suddenly as a disturbance sounded outside—running footsteps, raised voices, the sounds of struggle. Kaarn was on his feet at once, the box with the dragonjewel stowed out of sight. "What's going on?" Ross asked guardedly, thinking of his horse.

The tent burst open and a Raider stuck his shaggy head inside. "Lord Kaarn," he gasped, "you must come at once!"

"Alfreid, what's happened?" Kaarn followed the Nord of Old from the tent, and Ross felt inclined to do the same.

It did not take long for him to understand the situation. He emerged just behind the Raider chieftain and found that a large crowd had gathered in the cleared space before the tent. Three Raiders were bodily subduing a writhing man whose wrists were bound and head was bagged.

"We found him creeping up the hidden trail," the Raider growled. "Little shit was following the party that escorted the freerider here—a dragonman who had the nerve to name us kinsman." He spat. "If a Nord sides with the dragons, he's chosen the World-Eater over Talos. He's no kinsman of ours."

"And you brought him here for questioning," said Kaarn, and Ross was surprised at how coldly the young bear spoke.

"Aye. He'll have lots to say about that damned dragon who's hunting us."

Ross turned quickly to Stormbear. "You have been found?"

"What do you think drove us from the open tundra of Eastmarch?" Kaarn's voice was taut with anger. "After my uncle's capture, a lieutenant of Alduin was assigned to see me dead. Before our conquest of Eastmarch may begin, I must learn more about him." His blazing eyes rested thoughtfully upon the hooded, bound dragonman, now doubled over in weary pain, defeated. "And such an opportunity has now provided itself. It matters not he is a Nord like us whose beliefs are clouded. Knowledge is always attained before every move we make—one way or the other."

 **d|b**


	29. XXVIII - The Principles of Destruction

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

A scruff had grown to surround Pyrus's mouth and cover his jaw while he'd lain unconscious for a fortnight. Several days after he'd woken, he finally felt strong enough to get up without assistance, make his way to the mirror, and shave off the ugly umber bristles.

He'd hated beards. He had. Now Pyrus wasn't so sure—of his abilities, of what beliefs he held dear. Vylornar hadn't killed him, but perhaps he ought to have; the Dragonlord had scarred his body and crippled his mind. _He has deprived me of knowing what to think of anything anymore,_ Pyrus knew. But the scruff was itching, and annoying, and it got in the way when he ate.

At least there was no question about that, but the satisfaction at scraping the last few bristles from his cheeks was profoundly lacking. The face that stared back at him in the glass was drawn and cold. The golden skin had paled and gave a bloodless impression. His brown human eyes seemed dark and forlorn, harsh black pools against his delicate complexion. The scruff had helped ease some of the impact of his stare, in such a way he'd never noticed before.

He couldn't have his hood up while he shaved, so Pyrus soon found himself staring at his hair, which he'd never liked. It was naturally curly and deep brown in colour, black when cast in the right light. That had grown long during his sleep as well. Why did everything grow so much faster in sleep? So after he wiped the last of the shaving cream off his face he trimmed the tufts back.

The two simple acts of refreshment were already draining him of the little strength that had returned to him. Pyrus knew why his energy was so slow to regenerate. Dragonfire was much different than magefire or flame created naturally by mundane travellers in the wilderness; the fire was far hotter, faster, and more devastating not in its initial impact, but in the way it kept harming after the inferno. Burns born of dragonfire never healed. Unresponsive to mending magic, the essence of the flame continued to harm its host like a parasite, from painful itching spells to fits of dizzying exhaustion. Such effects could be kept at bay with firesbane, a potion developed to ease those persistent ills, but it had to be taken each day at the hour when the body was afflicted.

Pyrus wondered if he would ever accustom to its foul taste, in the life he faced dealing with his permanent disfigurement.

Finally he trimmed his hair back enough so it wouldn't be seen when he pulled up his hood. He made his way back to the bed, grimacing as aches crawled through his torso, shortening his breath. He sat heavily, hand pressed against his scorched ribs. It seemed to help whenever breathing became a struggle.

 _Curse him,_ he thought blackly, not for the first time, as the fit began to pass. But there was nobody he blamed more than himself, and in his wretchedness his resentment brooded.

More than a month had passed since the letters proclaiming Vylornar's visit to the northhold were flown out. Pyrus couldn't believe himself before. _I was so stupid. So stupid. To think that I could ever become like them. To think they would ever tell me their secrets. If I ever learn true mastery of fire it will be of my own discovering. Dragons are selfish and delight in their cruelty, and Vylornar is more like them than mortal._ Of course he was. Dragonlords became like that. Even humans, for all the good Brangwen praised in them, had the capacity to turn evil. Look at the Dread. Look at Astarr. He'd been the second of Alduin's first five to be granted the title and trust, and he'd been a Nord, a genuine son of Skyrim who'd turned against his own at the opportunity of dominion.

The cool air became sharp on his skin; Pyrus recalled he was yet to change. At least, he told himself as he reached stiffly for his robes, he was capable of now doing the little things for himself; he'd needed Brangwen's help dressing on the day he'd woken, and that had made him so tired, and risen such aches from the burns, that he'd needed to rest before he could do anything else. Potions and medicine helped him get through the first day, in which he never left the Hall of Countenance. It was good to stand again, but walking had tired him quickly.

Nonetheless, he refused to be bedridden throughout the rest of his recovery. Pyrus pulled on his robes determinedly, laced the appropriate fastenings, and lifted his hood. He felt more or less like he did before, but so much smaller and weaker, too; his custom robes of all the colours of fire had been burned away in the fight, the rest of his attire confiscated by the mages keen to spite him in his weakness, and these garments of a College student diminished him utterly. He could not be proud in these. He could not be himself.

But what was 'himself'? He no longer knew. This remained unspoken, but he felt that part of him, what and who'd he been before, had died to Vylornar's firestorm.

Brangwen remained his only visitor and company; Pyrus was amazed at her generosity, her sedulous kindness and patience she showed. Was it the human in him that made him realize how unpleasant he'd been before, when he'd never known humility? Now humility was all he knew, and while he craved her company he was embarrassed by it, and almost as soon as she was in the room, a part of him wanted her to leave. He wanted to regain everything he'd lost, his independence, his pride, his certainty in the world; he didn't know how she could help with that.

Unable to stand the thought of facing the rest of the College in this state, Pyrus resigned himself to his quarters and rarely left it. Brangwen brought him meals and medicine, but soon he had her bringing books to his room as well. With nothing else to do, and before he died of boredom, he'd devoted his time to texts transferred from the Arcanaeum, the College's library. That had become his routine. He woke, dressed, and read, eating when food came, savouring his solitude in a much different manner than he'd been previously.

 _Vylornar hated books,_ Pyrus recalled. Maybe that was why he'd started reading so much. _Anything to spite the Dragonlord._ That was a feeble excuse, given he himself had been so openly disdainful of his studious Arch-Mage, but what else was there to do? His eyes weren't tired, and the only physical energy he ever needed to exert was turning a page.

Again, that was how Brangwen found him when she brought lunch, engrossed in one of his reads. Today he'd selected _The Principles of Destructive Magics_ , a volume published by an old College master of such the school. He only looked up when she shut the door.

"You shaved," she observed.

Pyrus frowned. "You sound disappointed."

"I am, a little. I liked the beard."

He snorted and turned in the corner of the page he was reading. "So what have you brought me today?" he inquired, snapping the covers shut.

"Meat, fruit, firesbane, and a history on Winterhold." Brangwen placed the phial into his hands. "Firesbane first."

"You don't need to keep telling me that," Pyrus muttered, trying and succeeding in getting the stopper open in his first attempt. It had taken him two tries yesterday. _My strength returns, gradually, but it is returning._ "What lecture did you decide to sit through today?" he asked, resolving to get the foul-tasting medicine down in one shot.

"Just another of Bercaen's talks on the properties of mysticism," Brangwen answered. "You would've been bored half to death."

"Lectures always bore me half to death." Gods, the stuff was disgusting. "They only were worth my time if it involved practical examples."

"Yes, I remember." Brangwen seated herself on the edge of his bed, fingering the end of her braid. "How are you feeling?"

"Getting there." Pyrus set the emptied bottle aside, then pressed his hand against his ribs. "This is no better. Not that it ever will get better."

"Your body just needs—"

"—time, I know." Somehow he was already impatient, and feeling all the more wretched with himself. "The last books you brought me were entertaining enough," he finally said, when the silence between them became a little too much to bear. "I've never paid such close attention to this land's history before. It's…sanguinary. Even before the return of the dragons, this land was stained in blood." And it didn't seem to matter if they were killing merfolk or their own kinsmen.

"The Atmorans won this land through conquest," Brangwen murmured. "They earned the land and became a part of it—and they'd die defending it and their beliefs, even if the threat involves their own race." She sighed. "Until the dragons returned. Once the whole of Tamriel was united against them—now the whole world is theirs to do with as they see fit. But this is not their land. They are not its people." She seemed brooding today, which made Pyrus feel all the more uncomfortable.

After a moment she said, "Sorry. I shouldn't have brought the subject up."

This was what she'd been like as well; treading ice around him when anything dragon-related cropped up, be it a mention or a direct reference. It annoyed him, but he had no right to go saying that to the woman who'd saved his life. So he put up with it for her sake and prompted, "I'll have that food now, thank you."

It only took a few mouthfuls of roasted rabbit for him to forget the horrid aftertaste the firesbane potion left in his mouth. "Has anything happened in the College?" Pyrus asked.

Brangwen shook her head. "Nothing you'd be interested in."

"What about Winterhold?"

He'd heard about the damage his fight with Vylornar had done to it. He wondered if the north's warden would be angry with him. Themmen Whitegate was old and weary, and was inclined to frequently despair over his situation—that much Pyrus remembered of him, so his reaction would be one of interest. _Will he be angry at my impertinence or gladdened that I actually challenged a Dragonlord and survived?_

So far, however, nobody but Brangwen and the College knew he still breathed. That was probably for the best, until he was strong enough to resume his proper place.

The Bosmer mage mulled over her response. "The people are recovering," she said. "You're still the subject of interest in communal gatherings. They can't believe you did what you did, fighting Vylornar before the dragons and his soldiers."

Pyrus gave a mirthless chuckle. _That makes two of us._

"Word will have probably spread about the duel," Brangwen added carefully, nervously watching his reaction. _Does she think I'm going to jump whenever she says his name?_ "But for now it seems they still believe you're dead."

"You didn't correct them."

"They'll learn in their own time."

 _Won't they just._ "What do they say about me?"

"A few think you were brave. Some say you had a death wish. Most still believe you were mad."

Strangely enough, hearing this prompted a crooked smile. "I still challenged him. Not since his destruction of Great House Redoran has someone had the nerve to challenge Vylornar."

Brangwen stared at him. "You're proud of what you did?"

"I never said I was proud of it." Pyrus's tone turned bitter. One hand rested lightly on his side and pushed the fabric in. "The consequences were not worth the effort."

She looked away. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

"Life lost its fairness long ago." Pyrus picked up his book and resumed reading. "Thank you, Brangwen. I'm quite all right now." He didn't look up again until well after he'd heard the door close in her wake.

No, fairness was about as common as good will. Since the dragons' rise, everything had a price. Pyrus just couldn't understand her sometimes. She believed with such certainty, almost gullibility, that there was still good in this world—that there was even good in him, a part in him which was worth saving. Nobody else saw it but her. _And to that I owe my life…but I cannot be what she wants me to be._ Feeling wretched again, Pyrus closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair with a sigh. _I don't believe in good. I don't even know what to believe anymore._

Just for the hell of it, he upturned his palm and lifted it clear of the book. Concentrating, he called upon his magic…and was amazed at how swiftly this effort drained him. A feeble flame spluttered into life between his cupped fingers, yet almost as soon as it appeared, it disappeared as he keeled over in a sudden surge of dizziness. It took all his willpower not to pass out. _What's happened to me?_ he thought, truly scared. _Not even the fire, the inner flame in me I devoted my entire life to nurturing, is mine to command any more…it's become a burden. I'm broken. I was broken the instant Vylornar started fighting back…_

Such was his sudden exhaustion that he actually slept it off for an hour or so, dozing in his chair, before Pyrus sat up and resumed reading, trying to take his mind off his failed attempt at rekindling the inner fire in him. Yet this had so disturbed him that for a little while he could not concentrate on reading—but when he found himself approaching the end of a chapter, he happened across an observation that made him sit up in sudden interest, for it spoke to him with uncanny accuracy.

 _If I have discovered anything about commanding magic of any type, it is that all, especially that of destruction, respond to the power of a mage's mentality. Through the grueling schooling many endure to attain an esteemed understanding of the vitality of magicka, a mage's mind is grown and sharpened to the point of unerring precision—much in the manner of a warrior's taxing training as he inculcates his body to respond harmoniously with his selected weapon. With the school of destruction, it is no different, and yet it is remarkably divergent from other branches of magic in the manner that the destructive element is only as strong as the mage's mentality. If the mind is not completely prepared to consciously and willingly destroy, for whatever reason of principle, then such magic resists; its nature bears no moral. Thusly, if the mage remains susceptible to fear of what their destruction will cause, destructive magic cannot effectively be channelled by the acting conduit. With inappropriate mental energy, it may attempt to sustain its existence through other vitalities, namely physical energy and life energy, or it may fail to manifest at all. Such is the destructive nature of this occult that its potency to exhaust and even kill its caster makes it, naturally, the most dangerous school of magic to pursue. What some unwary magicians fail to realize is that harnessing the soul of such a force that exists solely to extirpate must always be regarded with infinite caution, and if pursuit of this school is not regarded with such, this magic is more than capable of claiming its would-be masters as it is when directed upon the masters' purpose._

The revelation that followed led to much thinking on Pyrus's part, and quite possibly provided the answer to his magic's unwillingness to respond. Vylornar's capabilities had not only exceeded expectation, it had near killed him. He'd seen into the fiery soul of true destruction, and found himself afraid of it. _Such ability should not exist in a mortal man,_ he told himself, and wondered if this newfound wariness of the fire was the real reason behind its foreign feel to him.

He'd never feared fire before. Since childhood, it had almost been a friend to him, one cunning and untrustworthy, but full of power, commanding respect whenever it was called upon. Such things Pyrus had desired, for his half-blooded heritage was one he remained to perceive as a shame; so he'd come to see fire as his purpose, and one he must continue to enhance. Never had he known worriment of this magic, only exhilaration; that had echoed in his ability, contributed to the effortless talent he possessed when wielding it.

 _And now that I know better, I barely understand my magic at all._ Which only swelled the frustration and uncertainty in him; who was he if he was not fire?

That night, when Brangwen brought him dinner, Pyrus needed her counsel.

"How do you do it?"

She was puzzled. "Do what?"

"Command your magic. What's your drive behind it? Your purpose?"

Her golden eyes rested on him, full of bewilderment. Pyrus was almost ashamed at having to ask her, ask anyone, such a question; as if his damned robes really did make him a student all over again. After a moment she answered, "When I first discovered that I had magical potential, I saw an opportunity; a chance to bring balance, in my own small way, to this unbalanced and imperfect world."

"So that's your reason?" asked Pyrus, intrigued despite himself. "It's balance you seek?"

"Between good and evil, between hope and despair; it's a child's dream, but it is said that wisdom oft comes from the mouth of babes." Brangwen sat down with a shy smile. "I guess it must sound sappy to you, with other ambitions of furthering knowledge and sharing magical sagacity with the next generation of hopefuls…but that was always my intention of what I would do with my magic."

It made Pyrus wonder why he'd never really asked these sorts of things before, and he realized just how distant and disconnected he must have been when he first joined, and throughout the years that followed. _I was so consumed with my desire of attaining mastery of fire that I was never interested in anything else—aside, briefly, mastering invisibility, though I have not used that spell in years. Friendships I always found a waste of time._ Reflecting on this, his whole life had been a lonely and friendless journey, but he had only himself to blame for it; perhaps that contributed to his bitterness.

"But you never left the College," he pointed out. "You're still here."

"As a graduate still learning, yes," Brangwen answered. "For all my time I've been here, I've enhanced my skills in alteration and illusion, and have now developed a keen interest in the restorative arts, and I'm ever discovering."

"Don't you ever get impatient? Don't you ever want to do more with your life?"

"I'm privileged with all I have, Pyrus; the College is my home and where I can continue to expand on my abilities without penalty. I'm certain at some point I'll leave and journey someplace else, and find work in a little town somewhere where I can help people bring balance back into their lives; but for now I am content being here, preparing for that day."

She was a rarity; someone who understood the meaning of contentment. Pyrus had never known it.

"You seem troubled." Brangwen's voice was gentle. "Are you okay?"

Instantly he withdrew in sudden discomfort. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you."

Of course he wasn't fine. Even after she departed, Pyrus couldn't stop thinking over what she'd told him. _She knows her purpose, so she knows her magic. She doesn't study destruction, but all mages train their minds to the precision of commanding the forces beyond mundane; so long as she knows her purpose, she can cast her magic. Is that what I need, then; not a fearlessness of fire, but a purpose?_ He'd known no other but for nurturing the flame into an inferno—and now that he thought about it, it seemed quite a feeble dedication. _I never knew satisfaction. I was ever hungry for more knowledge. Where would that have led me? Of course it would have taken me to dragons who above all things abolish weakness. It was a folly plan and I have the scars to prove where that led._

But what other purpose was there for him? He had no interest in the other schools of magic, nor did he have the patience to share his knowledge with aspiring mages—and harboured now a deep resentment of the dragon cause and ever having been inspired by it. There was no other place for him but the College—and once more, he would have to resume his efforts of mastering fire, because that was all he'd ever known, and all he'd ever know. _That_ was his purpose, but he no longer saw it the same. _I do want to master fire…but I am changed from what I was. I feel it is not for the same reason, nor will it ever lead away from this frigid place._

He retired shortly after these gloomy admissions were made, and though his sleep was dreamless, it was broken, easily upset, and indeed quite troubled.

When Brangwen brought breakfast, she found him already awake, dressed and reading in his chair. "You look tired," she observed, voice curt with worry. "You didn't sleep well again?"

Pyrus avoided eye contact as he answered, "You needn't fret over me like this." He glanced at her offering of eggs and bread and added, "I'm not hungry."

Brangwen sighed and set the food aside. "No doubt you will be later."

"Honestly, I'm fine. Leave me alone."

"Both of us know better than that."

She really was concerned for him. Pyrus was amazed at her, yet today he found no solace in her compassion. His thoughts were full of ire; at the world that spurned him, and at himself for ever letting it. "I am no pleasant company today," he said tetchily. "I think it best that you leave."

He kept his attention focused intently on the book she'd last brought him, a detailed history of Winterhold from its founding days to the present. His senses, however, were alert to her every movement, and it was not missed when her footsteps receded and the door closed softly in her wake. Solitude returned to him. In companionable silence, he read firmly for many hours, deliberately keeping his thoughts well away from dragons and fire.

He was disturbed from his reading by sunlight seeping through his window. Pyrus looked up in mild surprise. _No snow today…that hasn't happened since the dragons came to Winterhold._ Such was his curiosity that he set his book aside and stiffly climbed to his feet, mounted his bed, and peered through the glazed glass. His scars stretched and protested, refusing to give in such a way that Pyrus eventually gave up with a strained sigh, his breaths coming in clipped gasps. He'd seen nothing but a paling sky anyway, the snow clouds unraveling for however short a time. There'd been no giveaway shadows.

 _A naturally sunny day._ Those were a rarity, once in blue moons. Pyrus returned to his chair, though he did not feel immediately inclined to do so. He wondered if he even felt strong enough for a stroll. One look at the tome he'd previously been reading and he knew he couldn't hide in his room like his bookish Arch-Mage forever.

So when Brangwen returned at lunch, not only did she find the eggs and bread left earlier had disappeared, but she discovered Pyrus upright and pacing, stretching and reconnecting his disfigured body with constant movement. "I feel up to a walk today," he said, before she could speak. "I want to see Winterhold for myself."

She didn't argue, though expressed misgivings. "Pyrus, are you sure?"

"I can take it." There was a fierce edge to his response she didn't miss. Maybe it came from the infamous phial she placed in his hands and asked him to empty first.

Once he'd taken his firesbane, Pyrus gratefully left his confining quarters and stepped for the first time in days outside of it, into the Hall of Countenance. It was empty, fortunately; the sunny spell had probably been a suggestion for the College mages to leave their stuffy rooms and enjoy the midmorning. Yet the thought of having to cross the grounds to get to the bridge was one he viewed with sudden discomfort. He wondered if he wanted to go back.

 _And hide like some demented hermit?_ he snapped at himself. _You weren't afraid of anything before._

 _And look at what that fearlessness brought me,_ he responded just as bitterly.

The firesbane was kicking into effect, and he felt the brooding tension in his burns leaving him as he descended the stairs to the ground floor. Brangwen was watching him with continued concern, though she said nothing. Pyrus was almost absurdly proud of himself for reaching the door with barely any weariness, though as he reached for the handle he hesitated. The sight of his Novice robes, child's garments, revived his deep sense of humiliation while he wore them. Before he opened the door, he drew his hood as low as it could and kept his head bowed even as he stepped outside.

The sun was almost warm, though the air remained sharp and cold. His skin stung and he winced in memory of how it had burned upon connecting with ice. Brangwen shut the door after them and placed a soothing hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to do this," she said quietly. "There will be other days; Winterhold isn't going to go anywhere while you recover. If you're not ready…"

"I'm fine," he said through a gritted jaw.

Brangwen subsided, though unhappily. Side by side they made their way to the gates, following the curved walkway around the broad snow-covered courtyard. There were mages outside, students clad in their Novice and Apprentice robes, graduates in their Adepts, College trainers and academics in their Expert and Master garments. Pyrus glared at them, nursing rancour for them all. _All who would have easily let me die because they were sick of me._

He'd almost reached the gates when he felt eyes on him, and they didn't move away.

"They're staring," he growled.

"I imagine they would," Brangwen answered quietly, glaring over her shoulder. "It's unspoken, but your deeds haven't strayed far from anyone's minds."

Pyrus closed his eyes. "Just get the damn gate open."

Soon even the inner courtyard of the College was left behind them, and he faced the precarious walk across the bridge. The clear day again left him able to look over the edge and glimpse the writhing Sea of Ghosts far beneath. He remembered a dragon had plunged into those cold black waters, the failed defender of a mortal guerdon. Recalling his recent acquaintance with Winterhold's history, he wondered if its bones now slept among the ruins of the part of the city that had slid into the ocean over one hundred and fifty years ago.

He would not join them. He made his way to the other side quite steadily, though he could feel fingers of fatigue creeping through him. By the time he'd descended the numerous stairs to the thoroughfare of _Felniirgevild_ , he needed to rest. The firesbane kept the plaguing discomfort of his burns in check; it didn't restore his stamina.

But it provided an opportunity to see what marks his duel with Vylornar had left on the surrounding buildings.

He was surprised at the lack of damage. Had not the firestorm destroyed everything surrounding? The intensity of the glare and the force of its strike had certainly felt that way. But the buildings still stood, and only blackened walls sheathed beneath layers of ice gave any sign that a fight had occurred here. The ground was already blanketed thickly in a half month's worth of snow. The streets were wide and barren, though here and there a lone soul moved through the daylight.

"One advantage of living in the remote north," he said aloud. "The soil's stiff as rock, the wood is too frozen to ignite, and the snow just keeps falling."

But he stared at the road and couldn't stop remembering. _Vylornar had stood there, right there—the dragon was behind him, Ausnahyol, the strangely coloured creature. The dragonmen fringed the streets. The beasts perched on those rooftops, circled the sky…watching, every single one of them, watching._ The pain of his defeat thrummed under his skin. _All of Skyrim will indeed know, and remember me as the fool mad mage who dared to take on a Dragonlord. I doubt they'd even know my name, or they'll give me some stupid one like they did Astarr, the 'Bonereaver'._

"Maybe we should go back," said Brangwen. "You look tired."

Pyrus sighed. "I need a drink," he muttered. "Let's head to the inn. It's not far from here."

It wasn't far, but walking through the thick snow drained him greatly. By the time he scaled the first set of stairs to stand on the inn's front porch, he was feeling ill with weariness, sapped of strength. If Brangwen sensed it, she never said a word, just opened the door and let him step inside first.

The warmth within washed over him at once, and Pyrus quietly sighed in relief, gladdened to escape the frigid cold from without. The inn was large and roomy, and though most of the townsfolk already seemed to have found their way inside—where else was there to go in this ice-coated city?—there were still a few empty tables. Again, he felt eyes on him, and became greatly uncomfortable under their lingering stares. He avoided them all and swiftly made his way to the nearest isolated counter in a candlelit corner, near enough to the hearth in the centre of the room to keep the chill at bay.

The moment he sat down—which took longer than it should have, as he was having trouble respiring again—their attention turned away from him. A few lingered in gazing at him; in particular, a small group of mages clad in Adept robes, who gave each other knowing glances. Suddenly angry, Pyrus glowered at them all until they finally turned away, and the heat of his rage was slow to leave him.

Brangwen left and returned with drinks. "Mead," Pyrus muttered, gazing distastefully at the bottle.

"I always found it a passable substance," Brangwen murmured, with a nervous smile, "though a little too honeyed for my tastes." She set the bottle down and cupped her hand above the cork. After a few moments of careful concentration, it popped out and hovered innocently in the air for a few moments before being delicately lowered to the table's scrubbed surface.

Pyrus was impressed. _So her alteration studies have taken her so far as to practicing telekinesis._ It was the trickiest kind of alteration there was; most mages never got much further than exerting their mind's vitality into pushing an object away. Pulling said object took a great deal of sustained mental energy, and suspending it in a constant state of levitation was definitely the peak of telekinetic study.

"I never did get the hang of such magic," he said.

Brangwen smiled. "Using telekinesis demands as much patience as ability. You were rather lacking the former."

A lighthearted feeling crept under the bitterness. Pyrus, too interested to pretend not to be, tilted his stopped drink towards her. Brangwen cheerfully repeated the performance, although she held the cork for much longer before carefully lowering it to rest beside the other one.

"The alteration master always has his newest telekinetic students practice with corks," she said. "First we pulled them towards us from greater and greater distances. Then we pushed them away—harder. The final exam was not to see how high we could lift it, but for how long we could sustain its levitation above the floor. You wouldn't think one small and perfectly innocent cork could make you so tired so quickly, but…" She shook her head with a rueful smile. "Most get impatient with how long the study takes before you actually achieve anything worthwhile."

"You saw it through," Pyrus observed.

"I am an official master of corks," Brangwen replied. "Now, over a decade since I began pursuing this branch of alteration, it doesn't cost me at all levitating things as heavy as steel ingots, but anything heavier than that, and my magicka starts draining. I'd tell you more, but I don't think you'd be paying attention after a while. You don't share my interests."

"Not the theory," said Pyrus. "I learn best through practical experiments. Not so much listening or bookwork."

"No; the only time I caught you studying was for invisibility—is it still the only illusion spell you ever bothered to learn?"

Pyrus nodded with a wry expression. "Indeed. If you have the magicka reserves, even a novice can cast it upon themselves—I had those reserves, but I wanted to practice sustaining it over me for longer and longer periods of time. Admittedly that involved a small amount of bookwork, but it was sustained focus it demanded in the end, the theory stated. It's worked for me thus far."

"What on Nirn would you need to use sustained invisibility for?"

"You never know," he shrugged, and shared her smile. It felt quite nice, talking with his colleague, perhaps the first real friend he'd ever had. Even as a student he'd rarely wasted his time engaging in menial discussion over common interests or gossip. _It was always fire. Fire always came first._

His eyes turned to the candle that sat between them. The little flame danced brightly on its wick. The longer Pyrus stared at it, the more he was tempted. Even as a student, there was a little trick with candles that he could do, that entertained him when he was tired of study. He reached for the candle and held his palm just over it. Its heat pricked at his skin, and the flickering light jumped in his shadow. Then, with more concentration than he remembered, he picked up the twisting flare with two fingers and thumb and upturned his hand. Wickless, yet just as bright, the flame danced above his nails, glowing brightly and warmly in the murk of the inn.

Brangwen smiled. "Your powers are returning, Pyrus."

Pyrus snorted, but again he was excessively pleased with himself accomplishing this small feat. "I could do this since I was a child." Nonetheless, candlefingers—so he called it—felt so familiar he almost smiled. Mainly to show off, he had the flame perch on just one finger, then rolled it across the rest of his tips, before letting it hover once more above two fingers and thumb.

He gazed into the little light…and a whispered sneer, eerily familiar, sounded in his ear. _I might have considered you worthy, you know—if not for your human stupidity._

His fingers exploded in agony; he gasped and yanked his hand away, the flame coiling into nothingness.

"Pyrus!" Brangwen exclaimed. She was alarmed, but mercifully kept her voice down. "What happened? Are you all right?"

Pyrus didn't answer at once. He couldn't believe what had just happened. _I could play with candle flame as a child!_ He stared at his burned fingertips, too stunned to comprehend the pain. _Vylornar, what have you done to me?_

"Here…let me…" Brangwen gently took his injured fingers in her hand and pressed her palm over the blistering skin. A peaceful golden light glowed there for a moment, and Pyrus felt the sting of the burn recede until he no longer felt it. "You're not yourself," she murmured, as she released him. "You're haunted by your defeat. I can sense it in everything you do, everything you say. It helps to talk about it."

Pyrus flexed his healed fingertips, still dazed at what had just occurred. After a moment he registered what she'd said, and his hand clenched into a trembling fist.

"No, I'm not myself, Brangwen. I'm empty. Vylornar didn't kill me but he killed the fire in me. He destroyed everything but my life until I don't even know who I am anymore."

"I've heard of this," the Bosmer murmured, "the trauma that can impact a mage who lost a duel. Sometimes his magic doesn't return for a little while, because his mind can't move past his defeat. The only remedy I've heard for this is acceptance. Vylornar bested you, Pyrus, but he didn't kill you. Take victory in that."

"What victory?" Pyrus muttered blackly. "I wouldn't have even survived if it wasn't for you."

"Pyrus, it isn't weak to need help sometimes."

Brangwen had become very good at saying things he couldn't respond to. He didn't answer and distracted himself with a mouthful of the human swill called mead.

The inn door banged open, and Pyrus briefly turned his senses upon the newcomer. Thickly dressed in tattered travelling clothes, and a well-worn cloak draped over his shoulders, the wayfarer stepped towards the crackling hearth with a sigh of relief. "Forgotten how bloody cold it is up north."

He seemed quite unperturbed by the stares people were giving him, though clearly attention wasn't anything new to him. The traveller rolled his shoulders and announced loudly, "Can any of you tell me where I might find a magician?"

Oh, so he was one of _those_ sorts. Pyrus rolled his eyes and turned back to his drink.

"There's one right behind you," Brangwen answered.

The man turned and grinned at the sight of her. "A pretty young Bosmeri lady in a magician's robes? I bring tidings for such a woman, if she belongs to the name of Brangwen Balahil."

Brangwen promptly turned around. "She belongs to it." After a moment she made a little sound of surprise. "We haven't had one of you up north for months!"

Pyrus looked up at her strange choice of words, and at once he spotted the fox pin at the traveller's throat. _Freerider,_ he thought, and slowly sat up in interest. _I wonder what news he'll bring of the world._

"Sorry to end that winning streak," the fellow replied, and placed a folded bit of parchment into her hands. "But today's your lucky day, my dear. I was recently on the other side of the province in a quaint little town called _Kiifost_ and a pleasant old elf asked I pass on a message to his most studious daughter."

"Father," Brangwen whispered, gazing rapturously at the letter she held.

Pyrus thought of _his_ father, an unknown, unnamed Nord who probably didn't even know he had a son. He'd told Vylornar that his father had raped his mother—the truth was that he didn't know anything about his parents whatsoever, but he preferred that less savoury beginning than the idea the two came together out of love. His caregivers had been less than forthcoming about their origins, even how they'd ever come into guardianship of him; they'd only assured him that he wasn't theirs, and given neither could have ever supplied his Altmeri half, he believed them.

"You wouldn't mind if I take a seat?" the freerider asked. "I welcome the opportunity of sitting down on something besides a saddle."

"Of course, of course!" Brangwen smiled, much to Pyrus's chagrin. "Sit with us, tell us stories of your travels."

"Much obliged, Lady Balahil." The traveller promptly swung himself onto the bench beside her. Generally shaggy in appearance, brown-haired with a trimmed beard and twinkling eyes, he was cheerful to the point of irritation. "And you're most fortunate that I have your ear," he added, "because I have some remarkably excellent stories to tell! Although I'm certain you do as well."

Pyrus fidgeted. _He means my spectacular failure._ He kept his eyes fixed on the table under his elbows.

"I know your name," the freerider went on, "so it's only courteous you know mine; Mark the Imperial, and let's leave it at that. Who's that rather surly fellow across from us?"

"Someone," Pyrus answered frostily, "you don't need to know."

"As you wish, my friend." Mark the Imperial promptly turned to Brangwen. "I can't imagine you get much news so far in this desolate frozen north."

"What news we receive is usually months old," Brangwen replied ruefully.

"Well, you're in luck!" the freerider announced. "Most interesting things have been happening across Skyrim of late. How should I begin? Well, with the oldest news, I suppose—you haven't possibly heard of the Raiders, have you?"

"The who?"

Pyrus lifted his eyes just enough to meet the Imperial's. "A group of rebels in the east," he answered coolly, "who resist openly against the dragons, fancying themselves Nords of Old. The young bear Kaarn is their mindless face."

Mark's eyebrow quirked. "You're a rather unpleasant fellow, but also quite knowing. I commend you for that, magician. Well, as I was saying, recently a Raider was executed in _Ahgelingrah_ in one of those infamous _vaxnilz_ , and who else would it be but Ulfric Stormbear, uncle to the young bear himself?"

Brangwen turned away in distaste. "Those trials of 'purging traitors' are ghastly things. No man deserves such a fate."

"Hear, hear," sighed Mark. "But if you know about the Raiders, you'd know about the old bear, the real mind behind the rebellion. Still, a lot of folk I've met believe that the nephew isn't such the fool as we think he is—and if they're right, he's put on a very clever ploy to lower his enemies' expectations. My mere opinion, of course." He raised both hands, palms out, with a wearied sort of smile. "Strictly neutral, as I find myself saying one too many times to the people. Now, what else can I tell you? Ah, of course! The snake that slipped away with a dragon's pretty trinket."

Pyrus frowned. "What?"

"You haven't heard?" exclaimed Mark. "My gods, where have you been these last few weeks? The Viper—you know, that cunning and rather bloodthirsty thief who has this particularly unforgettable signature?—recently made off with a piece of property marked 'Dragonlord Ollos'."

"My gods, that's _true?_ " Brangwen gasped, though Pyrus was only astonished. _Upsetting Ollos in any way is about as safe as slandering the World-Eater's name with dragons in earshot._

"It's true," the freerider chuckled, pleased at both reactions gained. "No question who was the one to take his toy; Ollos was discovered stiff as a board, bloody tears all over his face, and absent of those fancy purple jewels the Dragonlords like to wear. The bounty on the thief's head is ridiculous—you could buy _Ahgelingrah_ and all the settlements in the midlands with the money. She's either crazy or completely immune to fear to risk and succeed incurring the wrath of the supposedly cruelest man that Tamriel has ever known."

"Have they found her?" Pyrus wondered, intrigued. _I am not the only one in this world stupid enough to challenge a Dragonlord, it seems._

"The thief? I've had a lot of speculation about that. She disappeared right after taking the Dragonlord's knick-knack and for a little while Ollos was turning the westhold upside down looking for her. Recently, however, I've heard he's called off the search and he's making his way across Skyrim. Some say the thief's been caught and he's on his way to collect—others think she's still at large and he's only following a rumour. And if you don't mind, I'd like to stop thinking what that Dragonlord just might do to that damned woman if she really has been trapped. I've heard too many stories about that Dunmer's passion for torture."

 _Haven't we all,_ Pyrus thought, _as we've heard too much about these other Dragonlords._ He took another healthy swallow of mead. It was slightly more bearable than before.

"Now here's a particularly good tale for you two," said Mark, lowering his voice. "One that I don't think you won't hear another living man tell. I only had the astonishing moment of fortune of witnessing it for myself while I rode from _Kiifost_ to Winterhold, to deliver this fair lady's message from her father."

Pyrus glared at him. "Get on with it, then."

Mark grinned. "Something tells me you'll like this one. Recently a lair was raided and ransacked, its guardian killed in battle—but it's not in the stonehold, where all those mysterious disappearances have been occurring lately. It was in the lonehold that this occurred. A dragon's egg has been found." Pyrus's attention sharpened at once, and the freerider chuckled. "Thought you'd find this worth your while. You intelligent people probably know that a brooding dragoness isn't so keen to let her egg be carried off in the hands of 'weakling mortals'—so imagine my surprise when, riding into the desolate ice plains wondering if it was better to turn back than spend a night braving the bitter winds of the northern territories, I saw three two-legged travellers making their way southward, holding that unthinkable prize."

"Had the dragon been killed?" Brangwen breathed.

"I was mighty curious of that; so I followed their tracks to a cave burrowed under the ice and looked inside. The dragon was certainly dead, its throat torn clean out."

Pyrus's brow furrowed. "Only dragons are capable of killing like that."

"So I thought at first," said Mark the Imperial, "but there were three dead bandits on the floor that looked to have died only hours ago, so that seemed a pretty clear indication who'd been responsible."

"What made you think they were bandits?" Pyrus asked quickly. He couldn't explain the excitement swirling in his stomach. _A dragon's egg without a dragon guardian…_

"Good sir, I have ridden this world a thousand times over," the freerider frowned. "I am skilled in what I do, but don't think I've never hit rough patches. Beasts are one thing, and bandits are quite another; yes, they were most certainly bandits, because I know of a particularly large and dangerous group that resides somewhere along the road from _Aardiiah_ to _Ahgelingrah_ , and the remainder of them, the ones I saw making off with the egg, were heading just that way."

"So a band of bloodthirsty bandits are now in possession of a dragon's egg," Brangwen murmured, and shook her head in astonishment. "What do you think they'll intend to do with it?"

"Hatch it, probably," Pyrus said. Heat rushed through him at the thought. "I can't see them studying it."

"This world indeed has gone mad," Mark smiled. "Recently _Krentuld_ 's been ransacked, but not by dragons; wolves are the culprits for the countless deaths and tragedies that have occurred in the westhold settlement."

"Wolves?" said Brangwen in amazement.

"Indeed. The dragons have made many enemies of the beasts of the world. Bears in the east, serpents in the shadows and wolves in the west…all now are now keen to offend our supposed overlords. Which makes me wonder, what others might make their displeasure of their draconic masters known?" The freerider looked at Pyrus and grinned. "Or what others might continue?"

And with these final words, he rose and promptly made his way over to the bar, calling for ale.

Pyrus watched him depart, feeling quite peculiar, and not all in a bad way. There was a strange leaping in his heart, a realized opportunity, and one, he sensed, he would not come across again. "Yesterday," he said to Brangwen, whose attention had begun to drift to her father's letter, "I asked you about purpose."

The Bosmer blinked. "Yes, you did."

"I never told you the reasons behind my asking." Pyrus looked at the unlit candle, whose little flame had rejected him so fiercely. "I'll tell you now. I asked because I no longer knew my purpose; and while purposeless, I cannot embrace the fire."

He felt a spark ignite. "I should have thanked him, the freerider. Unknowingly…" Or perhaps Mark had always known. "…he has renewed it in me."

"And what is it?" Brangwen suspected; her voice was guarded.

Pyrus smiled. "What it always was. To truly understand fire. To become it. To master it."

And with barely a thought, or any effort at all, the wick was aflame again.

 **d|b**


	30. XXIX - The Apprentice

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

"Assume perfect stance."

This Raegim did with mechanical precision. Once again, though this was far from the first time, Nurr was impressed with the child's learned ability.

"Good," he muttered, scanning her over for the slightest error. "Very good," he concluded. "You've stopped jerking that elbow of yours up."

The girl just looked at him. "When am I going to actually shoot something?"

"When I tell you to," Nurr answered.

"I was shooting bullseyes before I came here." Raegim turned her head to gaze at him, though the rest of her body remained stoically in position. "My mother taught me how to hunt. She and I would go out together in the twilight and hunt rabbit in the hillsides. We always brought back something for the pot, even if it wasn't what we intended it."

"Lucky you," Nurr replied. "But this is different now." He tried to speak gently, though sensitivity wasn't one of his strongest suits. He made a decent effort at it on the days that he had his apprentice to himself, without Jor barking at her incorrect posture or sloppy handling of her tourney sword. "You're with the Blades Order, and the Order is as much about discipline as it is about slaying the flying horrors."

When he'd first seen Raegim, she'd been close to a nervous wreck, compared to what three weeks in Sky Haven Temple had done to her. "You don't need to dumb it down for me," said the girl matter-of-factly. "I'm ten. I'm not a baby."

Nurr snorted. "What, adults aren't allowed to dumb it down for themselves once in a while?"

"I've never heard adults do that before," she admitted. "Only you."

"I'm only me in a lot of things. I would've thought you'd learned that by now." There was something about this child that made him annoyed, but in a sort of way that he was only lighthearted at. "It's our tenth day together, in my attempt to shape you into a decent archer."

"I already was a decent archer," Raegim replied. "I hunted with my mother. I killed the rabbits. Skinned them, too."

"Aren't you a well-prepared little huntress."

"That was what Joann intended for me." Her arms were starting to shake with the effort of holding the drawn bow for so long. "She wanted me to know how to take care of myself." She seemed as if she was about to go on, but didn't.

It irritated Nurr to the point when he had to ask. _Just who is in charge here?_ "So, are you going to indulge me, or would you prefer to wait until I learn how to read minds?"

"Something for nothing," she answered. She was really struggling with that bow now.

Nurr chuckled at the hint and offered, "If I decide you've held that bow long enough, would you care to share?"

Raegim lowered it with a sigh, flexing each arm out. "I'm not that strong," she said, frowning at the bow. "I can't do the long-strong thing like that."

"You'll have to learn it if you're going to get anywhere with us," Nurr replied. "Trust me, we all had to go through it." Just because she was so small, he sat down cross-legged in front of her. "So, what's this about your mother teaching you to be an independent soul at age ten?"

"She never intended for me to be alone like this at ten," the girl answered. She had a strangely passive and highly perceptive mind, Nurr had noticed, one that well exceeded what a little girl's intellect ought to be. "But Joann and Kjell wanted me and Agalf to be able to look after each other if something ever happened to them."

"Remind me; Agalf is your brother, correct?"

"Yes. Your friend is training him now."

"Ah, right. Anyway, continue?"

The girl sat down in front of him and placed her bow to one side. "Joann and Kjell both knew how to fight, just in different ways. So Kjell, a swordsman, taught Agalf how to fight. Joann had me learn how to use the bow. She made one for me, a training bow. She deliberately made it difficult for me to shoot straight, so I could train my will."

Nurr's ears flicked up with interest. "It was accuracy first, then?"

"You could call it that," Raegim shrugged, "but Joann had never heard of that rule you learnt by. She took it in steps. She liked to say that I had to will my arrow where I wanted it, more than I wanted my arrow to go where it will. She meant that I shouldn't have to rely on the theoretical point of things so much. It was like learning your first language as a baby. You don't think, you just do, and with practice you'll master it."

"And did it work?" Nurr asked.

She smiled, with her eyes; not once had he seen her smile with her mouth. "Would you like me to show you?"

Call it trauma, call it older than she had a right to be, call it a blessed mind from the gods; Raegim of the westhold was almost an adult in a child's skin. It was eerie in a way, but Nurr thoroughly delighted in her strangeness. He hadn't got on with someone so well since Lio. "Another time, perhaps," he replied. "I have a feeling I'm going to believe you as soon as I let you string an arrow. Enlighten me, just how long have you been learning marksmanship?"

The girl folded her arms. "But that's not how it works, is it?"

Nurr was unpleasantly stumped. "What?"

"This game of sharing and delving that we're playing. I tell you about my past. You have to tell me something from yours. It's the way this works." No questions, not a trace of doubt. The child was undoubtedly an anomaly. Nurr could very easily picture her and Emilyn together, plotting in a corner.

 _Well, two can play at that game._ "You don't know me so well yet," he answered. "Once you do, you'll understand; I don't talk about my past. Ever."

Raegim blinked. "Why not?"

"Why not? Because I choose not to. Some of us don't have pasts we're proud of."

"That doesn't have to hold you to silence."

"It doesn't, but I prefer that over talking about it." Gods, he needed a drink.

"But you're talking now."

"Look, we can have this contest over who can play tongues the best, or we can get back to training as we're meant to be doing. What sounds like the best way to profit from the morning?"

She demonstrated the correct answer. She got up, picked up her bow, and reassumed the perfect marksmanship pose. "Clever girl," Nurr approved, rising to his feet.

A few minutes passed in thoughtful silence before Raegim asked, "Why am I doing this?"

"To show me how familiar you are with perfect form."

"Haven't I demonstrated that enough?" Endlessly, endlessly passive; she should have been bawling with frustration, but no, here she was, calmly asking if they could proceed to the next step. Nurr had never met an initiate quite like this one. _And here I thought all queer folk originated from the greenwood._

"If you insist," he replied, intrigued to see just how far the girl's unpublicized talent went. He nodded to the other side of the courtyard. "Run until I tell you to stop—and when I do, assume the perfect stance."

The girl could not have been more different than he'd been with Gelwin; she never argued, never expressed frustration or impatience. It was almost maddening, her constant patience and mindfulness that should not be present in a child. Was Gelwin somehow trying to remind him of all the mental lessons he'd learned by having fate provide him with the perfect apprentice? _There's got to be some weakness I can train out of her,_ Nurr thought, watching her sprint across the deserted courtyard—the initiates had been granted a rare day off from the Pit of Pain, so he and the girl had the whole balcony to themselves and all day to train. _A real gift from the gods, if they still have any sway over us doomed mortals._

"Stop!" he called.

Raegim skidded to a halt and assumed the stance.

Nurr came over and studied her form. _She's comfortable with sudden halts and draws. Check._ "Front roll into perfect pose."

This she also achieved with flawless fluidity. _She's comfortable with deliberate disorientated recovery. Check._ "Side roll left." He didn't even need to say the next part. It wasn't a hard connection to make.

She pulled in her left shoulder and performed the move without the slightest hesitation, the bow drawn as she sprang back upright. Nurr had her side roll right with the same result. _This girl is born to be legendary. Complete comfort with movement with her bow. Gelwin, forgive me if I skip a lot of the training you put me through._

"You have the basics mastered," he told the girl, "even with bow in hand. I'm going to be uncharacteristically frank with you: I'm bloody impressed. Your mother teach you that as well?"

"The alpine forest around the town was my playground since I was crawling," Raegim said, and her eyes were smiling at his praise. "My parents had me rolling down small hills and grassy banks to accustom myself with whole body movement. When I learned how to use my legs, I was running and climbing. My body knows what to do, they always said; I just had to know when to let it. Agalf is no different from me. I think that's why your Blade Brother chose him to apprentice over Valheim."

"Was he that other boy with you and your brother?"

"Yes. He was my father's friend's son. He was much the same as us, taught by his parent how to fight from the moment he could hold a stick, only he never learned this flowing agility like Agalf and I did. We were small, so we had to learn to be quick. Valheim was always going to be large."

The girl _was_ small and lean; come to think of it, so was her brother. "Slim pickings up north?" Nurr guessed.

She shrugged. "Some times were easier than others." She fingered her bow. "What next?"

 _Consistency marries to accuracy marries to speed,_ Nurr reminded himself. _The weeks have been too slow for us both. She knows how to hold her bow and how to move with it. I've got to stop screwing around with her like you did with me, Gelwin. I needed that. She doesn't._ "You mentioned you wanted arrows earlier? Now you'll get to show me just how well you can use them."

He set up a target and located a quiver of initiates' training arrows. This he presented to Raegim, who slid it over her shoulder. It was too large for her, and she struggled withdrawing the arrows. "Until you grow a bit," Nurr observed, "or until a smaller quiver is made for you, we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."

So the quiver was removed and each individual arrow stuck upright in the hard dirt beside her. "This is a test of consistency," he explained, favouring blunt fact over Gelwin's more riddle-like means of mentoring. "At this present time, you are not trying to aim for the centre. I don't care if you can do a bullseye; this isn't the point of the exercise. Wherever you place your first arrow, I want you to place the rest of them as tight as you can around it."

Raegim seemed puzzled. "What is the point of this?"

Nurr recalled his patience. "I just told you," he said calmly, "I want to see how consistent you can be."

"Consistency is measured where you place your mind, not your arrow," she said. "It is how I learned from Joann. I never learned to achieve a strike through ten misses."

Nurr frowned. _This won't do._ "Your mother never hunted dragons," he told her. He knelt to hold her eyes in his, to further express the solemnity of the new life she had agreed to train for. "Your prey was different in the westhold, Raegim. You hunted deer and rabbits, where you could think over your every move, you prepared a single shot and took your time to draw it. With dragons, you cannot ever be slow. Dragons will not run. If threatened, even wounded ones will fight, and some I've seen will fight to the bitter end even if they know the end is inevitable. You are incredibly talented and remarkably well-trained, but dragons are a very different kind of prey—they are just as intelligent as you and me—and you cannot ever presume to know how they think, because every single one of them is different to the last."

She digested this before questioning, "So how does consistency help?"

"Because when you are learning consistency you are not training your will. Just like running and climbing and rolling, you are training your body. You train the deepest instinct in you to know where it is your arrow needs to go; sometimes you aren't always granted the liberty to decide where to put it. Yes, consistency involves the mind as it does the body, but you have to know, and I need to teach you, how you can rely on your body to make a decision your mind is too slow to make."

"That sounds like accuracy," Raegim said.

"Accuracy is mindful shooting."

"While consistency is instinctual?"

"Yes, when put like that; you know where your mind can put an arrow, Raegim; but are you certain your instinct can place it in the same way?" Nurr nodded to the target, feeling extremely Gelwin-ish. "Show me that potential of that exists in you. Take an arrow and assume perfect form."

This she did. Nurr looked the young girl over; she was well accustomed to the feel of the arrow at her cheek and taking her time to aim. Her eyes travelled down the length of the shaft to the target beyond, and another second passed before she loosed her arrow.

It thudded a mere inch aside from a bullseye.

Nurr frowned. "You were aiming."

"I was aiming to miss."

"That wasn't what I asked you to do. Loose the arrow anywhere."

Raegim still looked bewildered as she set another arrow to her string. "I give you two seconds to let go of the arrow," said Nurr. "Draw. One—"

She drew, waited for him to count 'Two', then loosed. The second arrow thudded a good hand's breadth beneath the first.

"Don't drop your stance," Nurr instructed. "You are now solid stone. The only part of you that is going to move during this exercise is your drawing arm." Since she had no quiver to draw from, he passed her each arrow individually. "You are not thinking so much as you are concentrating on maintaining this perfect form."

"Is this why you had me holding the bow for so long like this?" she asked curiously.

"Those were to ensure your body knew what the perfect stance of a marksman felt like. Assuming it should take no thought at all. Taking this pose should feel no different from walking, putting one foot in front of the other. It should be that mindlessly simple. When this has been achieved, your body knows to achieve remarkable consistency. You will keep firing at that same place over and over again. This is how I was taught by the greatest archer of my day."

It was remarkable, Nurr told himself; he was becoming a mentor at last. The girl was listening, and she was learning from something he could finally teach her. It was a sensationally rewarding feeling, and the surlier side of him seemed to have been transferred somewhere else for the while.

She did as he bade. One arrow followed another, in which she endeavoured to move nothing but her drawing hand. For her first attempt, she did quite well, though Nurr sensed she was still thinking too much. _It is difficult that she has been taught before,_ he thought, frowning. _Some of what I say contrasts with how she learned. I do not want to lessen what abilities she knows…but she knows accuracy before consistency, and to become what I know she can be, I must somehow intertwine the both of them together, strand by strand, until she is as comfortable with one as she is with the other…_

Here he stopped himself, astonished. _Having an apprentice has even changed the way I think! I can definitely feel Emilyn's hand in this…_

The exercise repeated for another hour as the sun climbed higher into the silver sky—it was rarely blue over the misty stonehold. Raegim had improved since the beginning, though it would be some time yet before she became blindly familiar with the exercise. _That will happen over meditation and repetition,_ Nurr thought, remembering his own experiences with Gelwin.

It was as the girl returned with her fired arrows in hand that she suddenly struck another point of conversation. "I never imagined the Blades to be real, Agalf and I. They were always a story to us."

Nurr smirked. "How many times I've heard new blood say that…at least you'd heard of us before you came; I didn't even know who the Blades were before I joined them."

Raegim's curiosity returned. "How did you join the Blades?"

"Don't go there, child." He could feel the bitterness creeping in. "That's a question my fellows learned to stop asking long ago. You can know what everyone else knows; that it was Emilyn who brought me into the Order. Ever since, I've devoted myself to this occupation—and when you vowed to join the fight against dragons, you promised to do the same." It seemed harsh, telling a child such a blunt, grim truth, but there was no pretty way to put it.

Wisely, she did not pursue that subject. "We were told stories of the Blades," she said thoughtfully. "But we were also told that the Dread destroyed them during the first great purge. How is it that you exist still?"

Nurr was puzzled at her question. _She's been with us long enough…_ "You've never been told the legend of the Apprentice?" The girl shook her head. "Well, it's thanks to her—well, most of us presume it was a woman—that we still exist, that the Dread never succeeded in wiping us from the face of the world."

"Why is she called the Apprentice?"

"Because she was an apprentice of the Blades Order when the Dragonborn turned, and it was thanks to that the Order exists at all." Nurr collected his thoughts for the whole telling. "So that was the prologue—the story itself is quite lengthy, but it's one that all initiates need to know.

"During the Fourth Era, there was a Great War—you've heard _that_ one from your parents, no doubt. There were no dragons yet, only the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, which battled for dominance across Tamriel. Among this conflict was the Blades Order, who back then were a group of elite knights that served the Empire in secret as spies. They and the Dominion were bitter enemies right from the beginning. The War itself was started in 171 when the Dominion presented the Emperor with the heads of every Blades agent in the Summerset Isles and Valenwood. The Empire lost the war and signed the notorious White-Gold Concordat with the Dominion that agreed to such infamies as the outlawing of Talos worship and disbandment of the Blades.

"Over the next thirty years the Blades were hunted down by the Thalmor, specialist agents of the Aldmeri Dominion who enforced the laws of the Concordat across the provinces, concentrated particularly in Cyrodiil and Skyrim. The Thalmor were ruthlessly efficient, and by the two hundred and first year of the fourth era, the Blades were barely a shadow of their former selves, and almost wiped out forever. Two members of the Order still survived, and rallied under the newly-named Dragonborn. At this time, he was yet to turn.

"The three of them located this Temple, derelict and forlorn after centuries of disuse. The Dragonborn unsealed the Temple with a few drops of his own mortal dragonblood and provided the remaining Blades someplace where they would be safe from the Thalmor. They'd been drawn to the Wall you've no doubt seen in the great hall—it aided the Dragonborn's pursuit of his destiny to slay the World-Eater. Now the Temple became a place where the Blades could start again. While the Dragonborn continued his hunt, they remained behind to rebuild their broken Order.

"It was during the months between the Temple's unsealing and the Night of Silence that the acting Grandmaster introduced the Order's first apprentice. The precious few months that one apprentice had to learn the history and the essence of the Blades proved invaluable; it was too soon the Dragonborn confronted the World-Eater atop the Throat of the World and turned his back on his destiny. Immediately after the Night of Silence, the Dragonborn, now the Dread, returned to the Temple and killed the two Blades he'd once counted friend—but he was not aware of their apprentice, and so when he departed he believed that the Order had finally been vanquished, and the last real threat to the dragons exterminated for good.

"Of course, his ignorance proved to be his folly. The Apprentice remained unknown to the Dread, so she survived where her mentors did not. She had become the last living Blade, and knew that if she died, the memory of the noble cause that had adopted her from the wilderness would die with her, so she devoted the rest of her life to rebuilding the Order. With but a few months' knowledge of an ancient organization, she successfully completed her mentors' mission in reorganizing the Blades into a thriving body, with a difference; the Blades Order she remade as a continuation of its predecessor, the Dragonguard, devoted slayers who spent their entire lives dedicated to the death of dragonkind. What makes this achievement all the more remarkable, and what initiates must learn from, is that a single lowly-born Blade-to-be saved her entire Order from extinction simply by continuing the fight."

Nurr gave Raegim an all-knowing look. "You'd be surprised at how many Blades revere the Apprentice. More often than not, she (or he, if you want it) becomes an initiate's deity throughout their training, right up until they're bladed."

"I've heard that term before," said Raegim thoughtfully. "Blading. The other initiates often speak of it."

"The singularly most important moment of an initiate's life," Nurr responded. _I've become as solemn as Lio with these explanations,_ he thought with wry amusement. _These mentoring sessions are definitely changing me as much as they're changing the apprentice._ "Every Blade, whatever their weapon of preference, receives a katana upon the end of their training. It is tradition, and not one the Apprentice introduced, either. The sword is presented in a ceremony where the entire Order comes together to witness the naming of a new Knight Brother or Knight Sister, but what makes the blading particularly special is that each presented sword has been custom made for that warrior. On one side of the blade, it is engraved their new title; on the other is the blade's name, which its wielder has chosen."

It became apparent that the girl found this a particularly wondrous part of Blade culture. "Archers even receive their own sword?"

"Of course," Nurr replied, feeling peculiar as he thought back to his own blading, all those years ago. "I may not use mine, but I still received one."

"Why a sword if you'd never use it?" Raegim frowned. "Why not a bow with Akaviri designs?"

 _How funny—I asked the same when I first discovered what it meant to be bladed._ "I know what you mean—why receive a sword if you'd never use it? But blading isn't about the receiving of your honourable dragonslaying weapon, it's…" Nurr frowned. How best to phrase this? "It's the making of who you are as a person, as an individual soul who lived in service of the Order. A friend of mine once told me that the blade of a Blade is more than his badge of office; it is how he will be remembered. Perhaps you've already seen the Hall of Honour—corridor where a good many swords hang from the rafters?"

"So those all belong, or used to belong, to Blades Brothers and Sisters who are now dead," the girl realized.

 _So she has seen them._ "One day, in a few years, you'll be bladed," Nurr said, "and whether you'll use your special katana or not, it'll be hung up there with the rest, so other initiates or sentimental bladed can drift into the Hall and remember."

Raegim's eyes shone. "Blading is a very sacred tradition here, isn't it?"

Nurr shrugged. "If you like—I just saw it as the next step. I'm not the sort of person who you'll find down there a lot. I live in the present. I don't dwell on the past."

The girl just looked at him, no doubt some thought going through her head that challenged what he'd just said. _Thinking,_ Nurr reminded himself, _that's all she does. I would not like to be in her head._ Straightening up, he nodded to the target and said, "Keep practicing. I want to see all those arrows packed around the first. I should be able to curl one fist around them all."

Arrow followed arrow, but silence was yet to resume with training.

"Are they frightening, dragons?"

 _Strange question…_ "What makes you think they'd be good and sweet?" Nurr inquired, passing her another arrow.

She was getting very good at moving only her drawing arm; the rest of her could have been carven rock. "That wasn't the question," the girl said wisely. "I've never had reason to fear dragons before. I fear what I've never seen before, and I fear wolves, but I've seen dragons once and I was not afraid of them."

"Lucky you," Nurr remarked. "What were they doing? Do you remember?"

"I remember very well," Raegim answered. "It was not so long ago. Dragonlord Vylornar recently came to the westhold to do a census of the settlements there. One day he came to _Krentuld_. He rode upon a dragon coloured in all the shades of fire. There were many other dragons that came, and a group of soldiers who fought in their name. My parents were afraid, and much of my town was afraid, but I wasn't. It was strange, but though the dragons preyed on our livestock and hunted our forests dry, and the foreign men were rough with us, I was not scared, only wary."

 _So you survived your first and final census._ "What about Vylornar?" Nurr asked. "Did he frighten you?"

Her eyes darkened. "There was evil in him, an evil that wouldn't ever let go. He looked like a High Elf, but he wasn't. He was something else."

 _Sounds about right._ "That's a Dragonlord for you," Nurr said wisely, "monsters in the skins of men."

To his amazement, the girl was openly anxious. "Was it wrong to fear him more than the dragons?"

"Not in the slightest." Nurr rested a hand on her tiny shoulder. "You have a Blade Brother who can tell you what it is like to know a Dragonlord too well. He's the bookish Argonian you'll find living in the archives, Screema-Lei. Not a very talkative person…but you have this gift of making very un-talkative people talk for a long time." He frowned. "You do that to me a _lot_."

"You're not really what you appear to be, Nurrkha'jay," Raegim answered simply. With a soft hiss, the final arrow was loosed.

"Oh, I'm not?" said Nurr, both amused and guarded. "And you think you know me better than I know myself?"

The girl told him, "That can happen sometimes."

Nurr narrowed his eyes. "The first time you met me, you were one heap of nerves—understandably, given I'm not exactly a cuddly kitten—but your time with the Order has made you strong."

"I'm not scared of anything anymore." Raegim fixed him with her unblinking blue stare. "There's nothing to fear when you're in safe haven, surrounded by family."

Nurr chuckled. "That's extremely deep for one your age."

"I didn't make it up. Kjell told us that. My parents always had much to say on the nature of the world." Here she paused before asking, "And yours? Did yours ever—?"

" _No_." His cheerfulness evaporated like dew in the sun. "You do not know me so well yet, child—only one soul in this world may know of who I was before the Blades, and she is not you." His voice was hard and bitter, and had taken the girl by surprise. With a sigh, Nurr bent down and looked firmly into her eyes. "I live in the present, not the past," he said quietly, "and you should do the same."

The girl nodded.

Nurr sighed. _So this is what it feels like to be a dolt._ "Look, I wasn't fair to you. Ask me anything you want, but my childhood is something that I am never willing to speak about, under _any_ circumstance. It brings out the absolute worst in me. That part of me is out of the question, and you must never venture there again. Do you understand me, Raegim?"

She lowered her eyes. "I do. I'm sorry."

"Thank you." The pressure eased, the dark thoughts resided. "And just because you're you, a child wonder with a bow and arrow, you are forgiven." Nurr clapped her shoulder, then went to the arrow-studded target. "You shot well," he called. "They're all nicely bundled together." To illustrate this, he grasped every shaft in one hand and yanked them bodily out. "Another session like this, and soon you'll be learning how to draw and loose an arrow in half a second."

"Speed," said Raegim, with bright eyes. "I never learnt that."

"Speed is essential to dragonslaying," Nurr explained, slotting the arrows back into their quiver. "You have to always be faster than the thing you're trying to kill—and trust me, it's not as easy as it sounds. Dragons can be remarkably quick. Help me with this stuff."

They carried both target and quiver back to the sheltered overhang where such items of practice were stored. The height of the day had passed, the afternoon turning slowly into dusk. Today had been archery, tomorrow she'd be suffering under Jor again. Nurr almost felt sorry for her. _Like pitting a Bosmer against an Orc in a full-out bar brawl._

"How many dragons have you killed?" the girl asked suddenly.

Nurr shrugged. "Lost count."

"But you've killed many?"

Inquisitive, wasn't she? Then again, he'd literally just assured her of that liberty. "Sure, I've killed plenty, then," he answered. "I don't put an exact number. It's been a long time since I went on my first lair raid."

"Agalf told me Lionus told him that you kill dragons with one arrow." Raegim looked at him thoughtfully. "Is that why Grandmaster Emilyn made you my mentor? So I can learn the secret as well?"

"It's no secret," Nurr answered wearily. "It's only skill. An arrow put in the right way through its eye can kill any beast. That is how I tend to kill them. I let my fellow Blades wear it out while I gain a sense of how it moves."

"You told me you have to be fast."

"You do. I have to learn fast. Every single Blade is trained to kill a dragon, but killing them takes time. Dragons put up a heavy fight, and they're learning just like the rest of us, anticipating where we'll strike next, where we'll be when—the intelligent ones, at least. Some just rely on brute strength and their Voice attacks more than their cunning and capabilities to adapt. Those are the easier ones."

"So how do you kill them with one arrow?"

"I ghost. While my Blades weaken and exhaust the dragon, I hide and watch how it moves, how it fights. In particular, I watch its head. The eye's a very small target, and if you don't shoot it right, you'll succeed in only blinding the creature, not killing it; you've got to get the arrow right through the skull and into the brain. Only then does it die. Otherwise you've only reduced its vision, and made it even angrier. I take a little more time to ensure I succeed. Rarely am I forced into making the shot, but sometimes…you can't think. You just have to know."

"Your body has to know," said Raegim in sudden understanding.

Nurr nodded. "Instinct always knows its and your capabilities—sometimes that can save a fellow Blade from death. We train your body before your mind in the Blades, with the sword and with the bow—hence why Gelwin taught consistency before accuracy." They stepped into the cooler interior of the Temple, and he became aware just how tired he was. _Who would've thought mentoring an apprentice took so much out of you?_ "You, child, are awful; I've never had to talk so much in a single day."

Her eyes gleamed with something mischievous. "Should you talk so much, then?"

"In general," Nurr frowned, "I try not to."

"Finally! I thought you'd never come inside!"

The shout had sounded from the end of a longtable in the great hall, belonging to one Lionus, who was stretched out quite comfortably on a chair across from his own apprentice with an open book on the table between them. "I was actually preparing myself to climb up that one flight of stairs to the courtyard door and get you myself!" Lio added.

"Ah, that would've been a terrible effort," Nurr smirked, descending the last few steps. "You seem impatient, and uncharacteristically so—am I wanted for something?"

"Not by me," said Lio, with an all-knowing grin.

 _Ah, shit._ "What have I gone and done now?" Nurr protested. "I had the whole day to train, I checked with her myself!"

"Speaking of training, how was it?" Lio asked Raegim. "Still alive?"

The girl simply nodded to him in deepest sincerity, and proceeded to join her brother. Nurr swallowed a snicker and said, "She's learning _very_ well."

"That I can unfortunately see," Lio frowned. "You are her archery instructor and that's where the mentoring should end!"

Nurr shrugged. "Emilyn did tell me she was mine."

"Right, so now she's learning how not to take a joke. Well done, Jay-Jay." Lio's smart-arsed grin flickered back into life, briefly, as it faltered under the glare promptly sent his way.

"Banviel called me that _once_ when she was six and found _Nurrkha'_ too much of a mouthful."

"I know," Lio answered lightly, "which is why we've never forgotten it."

"The Dread take you. What is it Emilyn wants now?"

"Maybe she wants to chastise you for killing all humour in your ten-year-old apprentice."

"Funny. Where's she at?"

"You know where."

Nurr closed his eyes and groaned. "Gods damn it."

"I told her you'd say that," Lio laughed. "Just your luck, eh? Thought an apprentice would get you out of your duties outside the Temple?"

"I thought I could go a month without having a horse under me, yeah."

"Mate, our Order isn't that big; half of us are continuously away from Sky Haven tabbing dragonhold activity, and the other half has to keep ensuring the dragons can't gain foothold in these highlands. You don't like it, but you're the best at killing them."

"What, so it _is_ another lair raid."

"Maybe, maybe not; she was rather vague about it, to be honest. You can be sure it's about dragons, though. She definitely said that word a few times. Meantime, the Big Three are waiting to brief you, or something like that. It's apparent you're team leader this time."

"So you aren't coming," Nurr said flatly.

Lio nodded pointedly to the boy, quite engrossed in showing his sister fragments of the tome. "I have prior commitments now."

"She can't have forgotten I have one as well now."

"Probably hasn't, but you're still the best. Off you go now, Nurr, they're waiting."

"Aren't they always," Nurr muttered sourly. He spared a final glance at Raegim, contentedly reading over her brother's shoulder, then promptly made his way into the archives—where, sure enough, just as they'd been planning Lotjoorkriid's lair raid, he found the three of them standing over the large desk in the centre of the library, planning in low voices.

Today it was Jor who noticed him first. "So we're finally graced with your presence, cat," he growled. "At least you didn't drink yourself blind first. What took you so damned long? We sent for you over an hour ago!"

"Should've sent someone a little more energetic, then," Nurr retorted, and turned to Emilyn. "So, what is it this time, Grandmaster?"

"I'm sorry, Nurrkha'jay." Was Emilyn apologetic? Really? "I understand this is frustrating for you. You only recently received Raegim to train."

"Who shouldn't be his," Jor interrupted. "She has to undergo the three years' Temple training required of all new initiates. Hand-to-hand and basic swordplay by me, history through Rendal. She should be no exception, to be prenticed to a personal mentor now."

Nurr's temper flashed. "I don't hear you complaining about Lio."

Jor snorted. "The Imperial isn't the matter right now."

"No, it's just the cat, isn't it?"

"Enough, you two!" said Emilyn sharply. "Nurrkha'jay, we did not call you in here to argue. We have need of your talent in case things go wrong with this mission."

"With the flying winged horrors, we never leave it to chance," Nurr muttered. "Well, what is it doing this time?"

"There's more than one. A flight of dragons has concentrated themselves around Markarth, attacking at will. Our Markarth informant tells us that they paid no heed to the warden's orders, and has confirmed that these are wild juveniles." Emilyn frowned darkly at the map of the stonehold capital sprawled over the desk. "We need to learn the reason as to why the dragons are attacking this single undestroyed city from the fourth era, and why now—and if we can, draw them away from the people."

Nurr looked steadily at his Guildmaster. "And so where do I fit in to all of this?"

"As I said, Nurrkha'jay; we want you there in case things go badly."

"Not going to work." He recoiled with arms folded. "I'm good with a bow; dragons, particularly the young ones, move fast. I can't ghost in the open and in clear visibility."

"Your ghosting is to serve a different purpose this time," Emilyn replied. "This isn't a lair raid; it's a dragonhunt."

 _Twin moons, it's been years since I was last sent on one of those._ "So we're killing the brutes, are we?" Nurr frowned.

"If we can avoid conflict, we will," said Emilyn. "We need to gain information from these creatures more than we need their deaths. We use the term 'dragonhunt' loosely, Nurrkha'jay; we're pursuing the creatures out in the open, but we aren't hunting them to their graves. The Markarth informant reports at least four or five young dragons—more than enough to take down even the most experienced of Blades."

"So it's definitely not going to work," said Nurr.

"Let her finish," Jor snapped.

Emilyn superbly ignored both interruptions. "I understand you have an apprentice now, Nurrkha'jay, but your experience and capability in battle is required for this; to help discover the wild dragons' motives, Rendal has assigned one of his acolytes to this mission. You will serve as his guardian escorts—his protection is your priority—alongside Falen, Kierra and Marcel."

"Marcel?" Nurr exclaimed in amazement. _That dandy boy?_

"It's high time he went on his first real mission," Jor growled. "The boy's been bladed for a year."

"He was bladed too early," Nurr told the two-limbed master-of-arms. "Half your initiates swing a sword better than he does!"

"He made his vows to the Order," Jor rasped, "and fulfilled the necessary training to leave his training days behind him."

"Absolutely not," Nurr said flatly. "I'm not taking that kid."

Marcel—the Order's greatest joke. He was a sweet-natured lad who severely lacked natural warrior instinct, and somehow he was bladed and granted the rank of Knight Brother eleven months ago at the tender age of seventeen. What the hell did Jor see in him? _The boy's no dragonslayer!_

"You're taking him," the disfigured Nord said bluntly, "and that's the end of it."

Nurr turned seething to his Grandmaster. "He'll only get himself killed."

"Marcel is a Knight Brother now, no longer an initiate," Emilyn answered evenly. "I do not reject the idea of his coming. He may not be a natural hand at the sword, but the lad is quick with his wits. He is joining you and the others on this mission, Nurrkha'jay. I agree with Jor; it is high time he has experience in the field."

 _Oh, for gods' sake…_ "Fine," Nurr snapped. "The kid comes. And I'll do your damned mission, too." A thought occurred to him. "On one condition."

Jor, of course, took deep offense. "You don't get to choose, cat."

"I do if I lead this." Nurr didn't part gazes from Emilyn.

The Grandmaster's brow furrowed slightly. "What more do you need?"

"Raegim. She comes with me."

The suggestion was, of course, met with disbelief and incredulity—namely from Jor. "You can't be serious!" the Nord exploded.

"I never joke," Nurr growled. "You've all known me too long for that." And again he turned to his Grandmaster. "Emilyn?"

She straightened with a most austere expression. "Why?"

"The girl has more than a 'natural talent' with the bow," Nurr said. "She is well advanced in it. There is, in truth, quite little that I can teach her, and all I can offer her now is experience. The only thing she really lacks knowledge of is just how her enemy really works."

"So she studies for it," Jor growled, "as every other initiate does. The girl is no exception—"

"But she is, isn't she?" Nurr interrupted stonily. "Else she'd never have been given to your best, the one who you always knew you'd have to pull out of his 'priorities' of mentoring, because he was always going to be needed, for one reason or the next." _Yes, Emilyn,_ he thought to himself, _it seems I'm quite capable of figuring out riddles after all. Took both of us by surprise, didn't it?_

The Grandmaster's expression softened slightly. "What makes you think Raegim is ready for this?"

 _She's listening,_ Nurr thought, mildly astonished. _I almost thought she wouldn't…_ "You already know why," he answered. "She's innocent but twice her age in mind, and well-practiced in the elements necessary of this mission. Yes, she still has some to learn in marksmanship, and a lot under Jor, but you said yourself, this wasn't a mission of combat."

"And if it does come to fighting?" Rendal inputted, speaking for the first time.

"If it does come to fighting, she's got a damned good eye for hitting her mark," Nurr offered.

"She's a _child_ ," Jor exclaimed. "Initiates do not leave the Temple on missions until they've been bladed! It takes years of training—"

"Raegim," Nurr said, "can handle herself." _A good deal more than Marcel, I'm certain._ "I wouldn't even be suggesting this if she wasn't."

He turned a more challenging stare upon Emilyn. "Ask yourself; I'm hardly your most dignified warrior, but has my judgement ever failed you?"

A tense silence lasted around the desk. Then Emilyn answered, "The girl is an initiate of the Temple—but I did grant her the privilege of also being your apprentice." Her eyes hardened. "If she goes, you'll be taking her into great danger. You can't guarantee her safe return."

Nurr snorted. "Since when has anyone been guaranteed that? An initiate outside the Temple stands just as likely a chance of being killed as your oldest, wisest, most battle-talented Blade. The only difference is that initiates are more likely to die quicker. Trust me when I say Raegim is capable, and when I say that the girl needs this experience."

"Why does she need it?" asked Rendal curiously.

Nurr grimly recounted what she'd told him before. "The girl has no fear of dragons. She's never experienced their cruelty, so she has no real idea of their nature or what she trains for. She needs to learn why they are feared and why we have to kill them."

Emilyn exchanged a glance with her aged Archivist, then turned to Nurr and nodded.

"Raegim will go with you."

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: Concepts of the characters may be found on my DeviantArt page, so don't forget to see Nurr and the rest of the gang on DA - after a review, of course ;)**


	31. XXX - Of Shadows and Darkness

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

The sky was paling with morning. At the sight of it, horror welled in Viper's stomach, overwhelming the agony of her blistered, frostbitten skin. "It's almost dawn."

"We never had much time." Nevada cast the fading stars a look of bitterness. "We've got to keep moving. We have an hour. Maybe less."

Viper swayed atop her stolen horse, clutching desperately at the saddlehorn with hands and fingers blue with cold. "I can't keep going like this…we'll never make it…"

"Damn it." Nevada flanked her, seized her shoulder and pulled her back upright. "Stop now and you are a dead woman, you hear me?"

"I'm not you," Viper rasped, lips cracked and split from the frost. _Not in any way,_ she thought as blood crept over her tongue. _Not in your nature, not in your occupation._ She was waning with the night, barely able to stay atop her weary horse. "I don't think I can do this," she whispered. "We'll never get there in time…I'm sorry…"

"No, you're not. Not yet. Ride. Now."

Nevada smacked the horse's rump, and Viper barely saved herself. The spooked beast lurched into a gallop under her, and she lurched forward, clinging to the warm beast's shaggy mane and neck as wind and ice stung her face and eyes. Nevada kept pace with her easily, tirelessly pushing her exhausted steed to maintain its top speed across the desolate snowswept plains of the lonehold. "Be grateful it's still summer," the blemished Nord hissed. "If it weren't, just imagine how cold it'd really be, so cold your lungs would hate you for so much as breathing the air."

Viper was of no Nordic descent, had no natural resistance to such temperatures. The wind cut into her frostbitten limbs like burning knives; the bundles Vazeera had given them—which were soon revealed to be thick bearhide cloaks—covered their shabby rags and had kept them alive this far, but could not completely withstand the chill. There was nowhere colder in any part of Tamriel than the north of Skyrim, and she'd just spent half the night riding across its frigid plains, barefooted and suffering.

Each minute was agony, but if she ever stopped, if she fell from the saddle, she would die; from the ice or from Ollos when the Dragonlords came looking for Cadmir's two escaped captives.

The building above the cold cells had been nothing short of treacherous; every room had unwelcome shadows and treacherous magic. Nevada's wisdom and Viper's ability held hands throughout the progression to aboveground. Each helped the other, speaking in silence as if they'd been Guildsisters all their lives. When Viper almost triggered a booby-trapped lock, it had been Nevada to pull her away and berate her on the dangers of Cadmir's ability; when scaling the walls to the rafters to avoid alerting dragoman guards, Nevada slipped and Viper caught her just in time, and hauled her to safety before a single suspicion was roused.

With too many close calls, they found their way to the surface, unseen and unnoticed. There Viper was handed one of the bearhide cloaks, and both escaped into the frigid night by leaping through a shattered window. It was only when Viper emerged from the drift she'd fallen into that she realized traversing the rooms and catacombs of Cadmir's abode had been the easy part.

It was the sprint to Nevada's 'sanctuary', miles across the bleak tundra of _Naaleingevild_ the lonehold that would prove the hardest and most dangerous.

Bretons were hardly resilient to the frigid heart of the northern night. Even on a stolen horse, Viper struggled to find the energy to stay awake. Within an hour staying upright was a terrible effort, and her shivering had become uncontrollable. Her strength quickly waned after that. It was terror that now drove her, for it did not take her long to understand that she and Nevada were at a serious disadvantage while out in the open. Ollos had lost his pretty pendant that granted him the rights to dragonback, but Cadmir had not—and as soon as the Dragonlords discovered she was gone, both would hunt for her. Nevada estimated they had until the sunrise before dragons took to the skies to hunt, and would see them. There was accursedly clear visibility across the plains.

The wind would cover their tracks in minutes, Nevada had assured Viper, for here it came straight inland from the Sea of Ghosts, unbroken and cruel, so strong it continually disturbed the surface of the snow-coated ground. There was no need to worry about leaving tracks, but a dragon's sight was without equal, and airborne, they saw every little detail in the land below for miles. Sanctuary had to be found before so much as a silhouette of one was glimpsed on the horizon.

It was a day's journey to Nevada's haven from _Gahriknaar_ , and they didn't have a day, so the two horses stolen from the town stables were pushed to their utmost limits. The run was killing them. They were hard and enduring Skyrim-bred steeds, but even they couldn't take such a flight through the summer snow at a sprint. Both were exhausted, but both would run until they fell and died in the ice if that was what it took to get to safety. Nevada was still strong in the saddle, but Viper just clung to hers and fervently prayed her tiring transport wouldn't collapse. She couldn't feel her legs. She couldn't run.

 _Ollos is after me._ Her life relied on this horse, ploughing through the heavy drift with wheezing snorts and gasps. _Ollos may almost have me._ She felt rime on her eyelashes and clinging to strands of her hair, and withdrew as far as she could into her heavy cloak, not heavy enough. _Ollos…I kissed you, I took your toy._ Despite the pain of it, she smiled. _Soon I will be home. Soon. And you will never find me again._

She thought of home, the murky Cistern, where thieves congregated as a family. Guildmaster, Second, and all the rest…and there she was, perched on a Riften rooftop, watching the world cycle below her. Dragons flew over the city that day. Cousins of the serpent. On the edge of hearing she heard their eerie song…

" _Shit!_ " Nevada's snarl snapped Viper's eyes open. "We're almost there, damn it!"

"What…that was real?" the thief exclaimed, though her voice had clammed up in her throat.

"Of course it was damned real!" The Nord's one eye dashed at the paling sky. "Almost sunrise; the dragons are waking to hunt. Any moment they'll start looking for prey. Scrap hours. We have minutes. It's so damned close…ride, woman! Ride, harder!"

Viper thought of Ollos, remembered he could still so easily take her, and summoned all her remaining strength into a single determined kick. The horse started once more into a gallop beneath her. Its noisy breaths became louder and more ragged. Froth foamed around its muzzle, deeply flecked scarlet.

The cold didn't even hurt anymore, she thought, rocking in the saddle. It was almost warm, welcoming. She was so tired. She could hear the dragons' calls, but they were but a whisper on the fringe of her consciousness. So tired…

An explosion of movement under her tried to reignite energy in her, and failed. The saddle was gone. She fell. It was not entirely crisp snow that seeped through her cloak and pressed beneath her limbs. It was hard and rounded, like stones. Vibrations ran through the ground. There was a roaring, like lots of water, and suddenly she was engulfed in the most intense raw cold she'd ever known, but that gave way to such a gentle darkness that she slid into it gratefully.

And for a time that stretched as long as eternity, there was nothing.

But somehow it ended, because Viper found herself stirring from the deepest, most comfortable sleep she'd ever known. She knew nothing but absolute peace. She was so contented she didn't even want to open her eyes and just lay wherever she was, dozing.

That was when her memory began to return—and all of it became as clear and sharp as crystal. Her eyes snapped open as panic swept through her. _I fell!_

Her attempt to sit up was clumsy and unbalanced, and almost at once there was a gloved hand on her shoulder, pushing her back. "Trust me, I wouldn't do that."

Viper's senses locked on a silhouette looming over her. "Oh gods," she croaked. "Oh gods…"

"There are no gods here," said the masked man. "Only our Mother and Father."

"Where's Nevada?" she demanded faintly.

"As safe as you."

That was a strange thing to say. For a moment her growing dread merely simmered in her heart. More guardedly she asked, "Who are you?"

"Her Brother."

Again, strange—and she was not in the cold cells. She lay in a cot swathed in furs, a pillow cradling her head. Flames crackled cheerfully in a hearth three paces away. She was in a small stone room lit with candles where the firelight didn't reach.

 _I don't feel in danger._ She hadn't felt like this since leaving the Cistern.

With new and calmer eyes, she studied this shrouded fellow. He wore skintight attire, the boiled leather studded, padded, and coloured red and black. A broad mask completely veiled his face, unusually decorated; between a vertically standing sword crossing over one eyehole and a five-fingered symbol splaying from the other was a pattern resembling a spider. The three sigils were red against a black background.

"Assassin," she realized.

He wasn't surprised. "Sister Nevada said you knew."

"She told me, when we were riding. I remember now." Viper frowned. "I don't understand. You were believed to have died out decades ago. You're a myth come real. I almost didn't believe her…"

"Our purge was not caused by dragons. We survived that, and as the world burned above us, we survived still."

Viper sighed. _I never had patience for riddles._ "I fell," she muttered. "I remember falling."

"Sister Nevada views you with honour. When you fell she returned you to the saddle."

"She saved my life, again." That wasn't right. "Assassins take lives. They don't save them."

"We save those who are worthy. Sister Nevada found you worthy."

Viper closed her eyes. "Why help me?"

"You helped Sister Nevada. You saved her life as much as she saved yours. You saved a member of our family from torture and death. To that, you have our gratitude, and in your plight we will restore to you your strength, and present to you an opportunity you are free to take or refuse."

The masked assassin pressed an ungloved hand to her forehead. "Your temperature grows with your wakening," he said. "Your strength returns. Your illnesses lose their hold over you."

Viper frowned. "Illnesses?"

"You were dying from cold and greatly fearsick when Sister Nevada brought you at last to Sanctuary. The cold we banished from your bones. Fearsickness is a plague upon the mind that cannot be mended with medicine."

"You mean trauma."

"Fearsickness," he corrected. "It is not trauma. Fearsickness is a consuming dread of something they believe inevitable. Sister Nevada believes the reason of it in you originates from a Dragonlord."

Viper's breath shortened. "Ollos…"

"Sister Nevada was correct. She was wise to advise me to hide my face. You would have woken to the sight of it and undoubtedly panicked. Now that you are awake and aware, however, I feel that it is safe for me to now remove my mask. I do not enjoy wearing it while I am in the comfort of home."

The assassin did so, lowering it to reveal the angled face of a young male Dunmer. His eyes were very dark and crimson, his hair thick and black, bundled back into a rogue knot behind his head. His skin was particularly pale, more silver than grey.

Viper did spook at his appearance, memories of Ollos pounding through her skull, but forewarned, took little shock at it. _But I should have felt none,_ she thought in frustration. _Red eyes and grey skin, however pale, equals that bestial Dragonlord in my mind…_

"It is fearsickness that inspires doubt whenever you see a face such as mine," said the assassin. He had a young and courtly voice reminiscent of Janquil. "When you regain confidence once more, and lose your immediate fear of Dragonlord Ollos, the fearsickness will pass."

Viper gave up pretending to be afraid. "What can I do? Whenever I close my eyes…"

"You fear what he would do to you, should you ever fall into his clutches. But you shall not. You are among the Brotherhood. Leave behind your old gods. It is the Night Mother who watches over you now. Our unholy matron has seen you to safety by the hand of her faithful child, when your gods abandoned you."

"Don't try and convert me, I never kept them."

"Whether religion counted for you or not, you found company in the darkest of places. That is known." The assassin stood and proceeded to the hearth, where he took a kettle off from its suspension over the crackling blaze. "You may sit up now. Your blood is warm and lively in your veins."

Viper did so, relieved as her body responded, though her joints remained quite stiff. "Was I asleep for long?"

"A day and a night, and it is morning now."

"Is Nevada okay?"

"Sister Nevada is recovering swiftly." The assassin resumed his place at her bedside and pressed a small bowl of steaming liquid into her palms. The warmth was revitalizing, and she savoured it. She'd almost forgotten what heat felt like. "Drink," said the Dunmer. "The last of the cold shall be driven from your bones."

Viper had not so quickly forgotten the poisoned water the smugglers had fed her. She brought the bowl to her nose and sniffed. "Frost mirriam and mountain flowers, blue and purple. You've made stoneblossom tea."

The assassin nodded, looking pleased. "You know this mixture."

"I've made it many times." She drank, and the familiar taste made her smile. "Nothing better after a really cold night."

"You know the fundaments of alchemy." It was a statement, no question.

"I was taught it in my childhood. A wandering alchemist adopted me awhile. I learned a great deal from him." Viper thought of Celandine, wondered where he might be now. "Poisons were always my greater strength than potions. You've heard of my Serpent's Kiss. The last man I gave it to was Ollos."

"Where men weep sanguine in their rue," said the assassin with a smile. "The Brotherhood has much admired your most poetic signature. I myself have wondered often over how such a potent poison came about. I do not know of it."

"I make it myself."

"That is indeed efficient. It is untraceable."

Viper drained the bowl and flexed her wrists and fingers. Circulation was returning to them. She was amazed she hadn't lost any of them to frostbite. Her toes all felt like they were still there as well. _This fellow must be very good at making stoneblossom tea._ "What's your name?" she asked.

"Perhaps it is better you do not know my name yet," said the assassin politely.

Viper frowned. "Why?"

"Only siblings may know each other's names. It is safest that way."

She snorted. "No doubt you know mine."

"No doubt," the Dunmer agreed. "You may get up now. Fresh clothes may be found beneath the topmost blanket. I shall wait outside to grant you privacy." He promptly rose and exited the room with his patterned mask in hand, and the heavy wooden door softly closed behind him.

Viper sat quite still for a moment, wondering…had she really escaped from Cadmir and Ollos? It seemed almost too good to be true…and yet the Dark Brotherhood was as much an enemy to the dragons as worshippers of Talos. She did not doubt who the Dunmer said he was, and so far it seemed he had been the one to nurse her back to health after her collapse.

 _Nevada must be here if I am where I think I am._ She pushed back the heavy covers and mounted her own two feet. She was a little disorientated, but straightened quickly. All her toes did still remain to her, and the stone floor was warm under her soles, still swollen from the cold, but no longer painful. She was not dressed in her soiled threadbare rags but a clean linen gown, soft and kind upon her skin, which appeared to have paled significantly since last she remembered it. _Weeks spent in a smuggler's cart, not catching a glimpse of the sun, and five frigid days in Cadmir's cold cells…no bloody wonder._

She turned back to her cot and removed the first layer of furs. Sure enough, some warm woolens lay folded at the end of the bed. She pulled them on over her undershirt, relishing their weight and the warmth they brought her, and as she dragged her hair out from under the collar, she discovered it had been washed and combed. _They have treated me so kindly,_ Viper thought, a little dazed as she slipped her feet into a waiting pair of trimmed sable boots. _I've never experienced anything like it…it's nice. It's quite nice._

The assassin was waiting just outside when she left the little room. He smiled and nodded to beyond. "Welcome to Sanctuary."

Viper looked around. She'd stepped into a cavernous chamber, cheerily lit with chandeliers and braziers. Red drapes and black shadows were cast everywhere the eye turned; a short flight of steps led to a single longtable stretched out across the floor below, and corridors wound away to other halls. It had a remarkably homely feel, though it definitely felt underground. There was still a chill in the air, but compared to the cold cells, it was pleasantly cool on her face.

The assassins were everywhere, and not one of them was masked. Quite pleasantly they conversed with one another, or read contentedly in a chair by the blazing hearth in the centre chamber. Some looked up in interest when the Dunmer had spoken. A few even offered smiles. Viper was puzzled more than anything else. _Queerly friendly as well…_

"You are most welcome here," her companion said, as though sensing her bewilderment. "You saved our Sister, one of our family, from the Dragonlord who claimed her."

"My helping her really mattered that much?"

"It is not a question of matter, but life and death. We gift death to those who call upon it, but to balance our souls for an existence of such a task, we praise and cherish every living soul in our family. It is how the Brotherhood truly draws its strength. All of us shared the womb of the Night Mother, and all of us were reborn in her unholy embrace. She loves her children, you see—and from this, all of us, once strangers and lonely in a world of hate and pain, we become a union of the like-minded. In place of pain and grief, we welcome malice and silence, the symphony of the Void where all damned souls shall walk. We are the Brotherhood, our bonds of undying loyalty to our Brothers and Sisters forged in blood and death."

Viper's smile was wry. _A lovely epitaph._ "Pretty words."

"As poetic as your kisses. Sanguine is espoused by the Night Mother."

The Dunmer beckoned. "Come. Her most favoured daughter keenly awaits your arrival."

Suddenly wary, Viper followed. "Do you mean the Listener?"

"You know our history of the Brotherhood?"

"Once they and the Thieves Guild were in regular communication," Viper pointed out, remembering. "Unsurprising in the shared underworld, I suppose. We steal, you kill, we both impact the lives of general populace in very different manners. Since the purging, the two organizations have rather lacked speaking to the other."

"When Old Riften burned, the Guild was commonly thought to have perished with it," the assassin answered. "The Listener enforced this belief in us. She believed it was for the best this way. We shall be free to operate in the shadows of this dragon-made world with no ties. So it seems your Guild has forgotten about us." He sounded amused. "Most intriguing. Certain thieves prevent us from thinking the same. Your presence here reinforces the idea that the Thieves Guild is yet to die."

"Funny. I'm thinking just that about the Brotherhood." Viper narrowed her eyes. "So what am I here for, really? To bridge the divide between you and the Guild?"

"It is a question the Listener herself will best answer."

They stepped into another chamber, one that was certainly more reclusive than the rest. There was no happy hearth, nothing that looked remotely hospitable; it was a single barren room made of stone. Against one wall lined with candles stood an upright coffin, and a single lone figure was seen crouched before it, head bowed. Upon the intrusion of her solitude, she rose gracefully and turned.

The presumed Listener was Altmer, and though she bore no visible marks of age, she did not look young. Her face was as angular as carven stone, her skin etiolated gold; her eyes, quite preternatural, glowed from the shadowed sockets, twin candles in darkness nursing amber flame. Perhaps what was most remarkable was her uncut hair, gleaming like polished silver, falling in long strands over her shoulders and draping her pitch robes like folds of a moonlit cloak.

"Sweet child," she said, voice barely above a murmur. "The Night Mother welcomes you with open arms. She speaks most highly of you."

Viper was immediately uneasy. _Fanatics, all of these assassins…and they're remarkably dangerous fanatics._ "I just wanted out of the cold cells," she muttered.

"All seek release from that dark and dismal place," the Listener said, "but with their lives, many find lacking. You were most fortunate, you and dearest Nevada. Together, you brought our dear Sister home, and to that we owe you much. The Night Mother did not intend for her child to fall into the black embrace of the necromancer Cadmir. She lost sight of her, and when we could not find her, we feared she was lost forever."

Her pale hands rested lightly upon Viper's shoulders. Her touch was uncannily warm and motherly. "We have much to thank you for. The preservation of a Sister's life is beyond expression of gratitude. You shall always be a friend to us, Viper, lost child in empty shadows."

Viper frowned. "You're trying to convert me. It's not working."

"The Night Mother's will is not forced upon others," the Listener answered gently. "Perhaps one day, or perhaps not, you will feel her loving caress. Perhaps you already have, but are yet to realize it. Our Mother's mind works in manners most mysterious. She told me of your coming here. She told me much about you. Ah, little one…"

Her thumb stroked Viper's cheek, eyes softening with sympathy. "You have walked a long and solitary path. You have never known true family. You have always been alone."

"Stop that." Viper ducked away quickly, abruptly irritated. "I was alone once, until I found the Guild. They took me in, trained me to become what I am—"

"And they betrayed you." There was no anger in the Listener's voice, only sadness.

Suddenly, Viper was frightened. "What do you mean?"

The Altmer's eerie amber eyes dimmed and closed. "There was never to be a return to the shadow of Nocturnal for you. Your master betrayed you. For greed, you were sacrificed."

Viper gaped at her. _Cenrin? No…he'd never…_ "You're mistaken," she snapped, though a terrible dread was yawning in her soul. "I know him. My Guildmaster. That's not how we work. He does not sacrifice his Guildmates for coin—that's not our nature!"

"It is not the nature of the Guild, no," the Listener agreed solemnly, "but the Night Mother has felt the corruption in the soul of the one who leads it. Sixteen precious stones for the life of a talented thief…to him, it was a fitting trade. His heart is wicked, black and corrupted with the evil of desire. The Guild he has come to lead is but a means to an end. His is a mind of gain and wealth. He will decide nothing until he ascertains there will be profit exceeding consequence."

Viper wanted to argue, but all will to seemed to wither in her throat. She did not want to believe Cenrin was capable of such a thing…yet she found she could not disagree. His mind was cold and hard as steel. Selling thieves in an overcrowded Guild and profiting from their losses…that did not seem beyond him.

"The Night Mother has watched your journey from the moment the bargain was struck," the Listener went on. "She watched the pendant disappear, and your descent into the company of dishonest men. She followed your secret journey across the province, and felt the shadow of treachery descend over the heart city, as you were exchanged into the keeping of the untrustworthy; those who belonged to one Guildmaster but served another far more treacherous."

 _Cenrin…she means Cenrin…_ Viper was dazed. _How did he know of the Smugglers' Guild? Janquil told me that nobody…Janquil…his Second…oh, gods…_

"Our Mother has watched over you, sweet child, before you even knew you were alone."

She turned away. Her mind had been a confusing blur before—and now it was hollow in such a way that drained her.

Betrayal. She'd never known it before, not really. Betrayal had to come from those she ever truly trusted. She'd been betrayed by those she'd trusted, whom she'd placed her life in the hands of…and they'd given it away, to further their own greed…

Of course there would have been consequences with thieving from Ollos. The Guild had never incurred the wrath of one of the World-Eater's first five Dragonlords, and such a wrath could only be terrible. One life for sixteen Stones of Barenziah, her death for their gain and continued anonymity from the dragons…it must have been a bargain to them.

 _I trusted them._ Down to her core, she was shaken. _I trusted them all._

"Sweet child." The Listener's hand lighted tenderly upon her shoulder. "To be betrayed by those you counted friend is most bitter. I know its curdling taste and feel your despair. I know what it is like to trust completely, yet to have my life handed away for, seemingly, the greater good."

Viper's lip curled. "I find that hard to believe."

"It is true," the Listener said softly. "This predicament is most familiar to me."

"What, after all this blithely talk about being a fraternity of congenial minds and spirits?"

"The Brotherhood has been betrayed by its own before." There was a sudden anger in her amber eyes that took Viper unawares. "There shall always be those who succumb to the manipulating whisper of corruption," she murmured. "Know that I do understand."

Her sincerity was genuine. The thief, or former, believed her.

"So what happens now?" she asked, with a shake of her head. "If what you say is true, I can't go back. I can't ever go back."

"Your path is yours," said the Listener, withdrawing. "I have summoned you to me to personally express my gratitude of Nevada's return, and to enlighten you with the grim truth of how your journey has turned so unexpectedly to uncertainty. Now you are free of us, if you so choose it. You may make your own way from here, or…"

Viper narrowed her eyes. "Or what?"

The Listener smiled. "The Night Mother smiles upon you. Should you so choose, you may remain with us. If you are willing, I formally extend to you an offer I make to few; to join the Brotherhood, to become our Sister, to begin again; to be reborn."

For a long moment, Viper was silent, thinking. Such a suggestion…it should have shocked her, or filled her with disgust. She was a thief, she did not murder those she came to steal from! And yet…if she refused…another lifetime on her own, alone and friendless, with nowhere she could turn when things grew tough…

 _I cannot live like that again. Never again._

But could she ever place her faith in such an organization again?

 _These people saved my life twice over._

Undecided, uncertain, Viper asked, "What happens if I say yes?"

"Then Sanctuary is open to you. It will become a home to you. All those you have seen and will see become Brothers and Sisters, your new family. You will become familiar with our every custom, and ultimately, you will become a servant of Sithis. You will learn how to kill."

Viper closed her eyes. "I've never killed before."

"You are a thief in nature, sweet child, but your heart is not what it was. Allow us to, and we will reshape it and you into the Night Mother's newest daughter."

"You mean to make me a murderer."

"Indeed. To make you a part of the Void. To make you not a shadow, but an embodiment of the darkness itself. Shadows are illusions. Darkness is real. Shadows betray, and have betrayed you, my child; while darkness does not, and cannot, lie." The Listener sighed. "You were never Nocturnal's child. She knows not a mother's love, only the cold and uncaring spirit of business. Such is the treachery of the Daedra. How it tends to seep into those…closest…to her."

 _She knows of the Nightingales,_ Viper realized. _Is it this embodiment she speaks of? Does this Night Mother actually exist?_ Naturally she was inclined to skepticism; she'd never been good at faith in the paranormal. "And you can promise me better?" she asked. "You can promise me that I'll never be betrayed again?"

"My child, it is etched into stone. For as long as I have led this Brotherhood, the Five Tenets exist in the flesh and the blood and the spirit of every Brother and Sister. There is power in such belief—dreadful power that awaits those who dare go against these sacred laws. Our Mother knows the design upon the heart of every one of her children. She will know, and punish accordingly, any who would seek to do harm to this family."

Viper shook her head. "I can't. I cannot adopt this…piety."

The Listener did not seem offended. "Many who come to us fear to understand the Night Mother or Sithis, the Dread Father. I understand your unwillingness to accept her. A child does not have to love their parents. You may kill in the name of whatever Daedra or Divine you hold dear to you—I will not challenge that—but either through acceptance of the Night Mother, or acceptance of the essence, you will learn to send souls to the Void.

"We may walk dark paths as those of the Brotherhood, little one, but we never walk it alone."

Viper felt the other's gaze upon her, calm and beseeching. She was sorely tempted to believe this strangeness was all real, all genuine—and maybe it was, for all she knew. The assassins had done nothing to harm her, and welcomed her openly. Did they really want her here? Were they honestly so grateful that she'd helped Nevada escape from Cadmir's icy clutches?

How could have Cenrin betrayed her?

It struck her, quite suddenly; she didn't want to go back to the Cistern. She couldn't go back. The thought of returning to Slavetrap was alien and unwelcoming. _More than a fortnight has passed,_ she thought. _I'm dead or lost to Cenrin, to the Guild…_

"I don't know if I can take this life," she murmured, "but…there's nowhere else."

"You accept, then?"

"I'm not sure. I'll stay awhile. There's nowhere else for me." The Dragonlord's face flashed in her mind, and she shakily pushed it away. _I escaped you. You can't find me._ "And I'll be damned if I let Ollos have his victory. I need to disappear."

"And disappear you shall, my child, into darkness and beyond all knowing of those outside true Sanctuary." The Listener was smiling again. "Time shall be granted to you, to accustom to this place and make certain once more of your mind and being. Rest and summon your strength, and when I have need of you, sweet child, then I shall call for you again. Until then, find Sister Nevada, and seek companionship from her. She will give it quite gladly. The experiences you two have shared are most unlike anything most shall ever know."

"She's all right? She'll be all right?"

"Her body and her mind will heal…" The Altmer sighed deeply. "Cadmir's magic is cruel and strong, however. Little can be done for what she has lost to him."

 _Still scarred, still mutilated._ Unexpected pity for the Nord swelled in Viper's heart. _No person deserves the hell she's gone through. Damn Cadmir to the bowels of Oblivion._ "Where can I find her?"

"The stables. She has been going there often. My Brother shall show you the way. Now it is time for the symphony of Sithis to return to this sacred chamber, and for my prayers to recommence. The Night Mother speaks, and to her every whisper, I must listen." The Listener then knelt before the coffin once more, and became remarkably still.

As quietly as she could, which still felt too loud, Viper departed. The Dunmer assassin had again been waiting outside, and asked, "Do you remain with us?"

She lingered over her answer. "I didn't turn her down…"

He merely nodded. "Do you wish to return to your room?"

"No…no, I want to find Nevada. She…believed that she'd be in the stables."

"It is where Sister Nevada has often been found. Most likely it is where you shall find her again."

They left the ungodly chamber and the Listener behind them. Rooms opened and diminished around them, the assassins within each watching their progress through eyes of all kinds. The colours red and black were everywhere, but so were warm hearths, burning away the chill of the north in every hall. "This place is big," Viper mused, as their feet found steps winding deeper downward.

"Sanctuary has been greatly expanded since the Brotherhood came to it. One such expansion was the discovery of a natural cave that lay alongside this place." The stairs ended, opening into that cave; the air was much colder, but braziers were everywhere, keeping the worst at bay. A natural rill ran through the cave, cutting through it like a silvery vein. There was a large structure in one cosy corner, and from there Viper heard the heavy crunch of hooves and snorting of horses. "Sanctuary is asylum to beasts as well as the Night Mother's children."

That was where Viper found Nevada, grooming one of the shaggy animals. She looked different—the rags were gone, and she was clad in the same black and red boiled leather as the other assassins. The left side of her was currently presented, and it didn't turn as she heard Viper's footsteps crunch over the light layer of verglas on the ground.

"Awake at last, are you?"

"Yeah. Have been for a while now." Viper glanced at the beast the Nord was attending to, and recognized it. "That's yours. The horse you stole from _Gahriknaar_."

"Yeah, it is." Nevada smiled. From where Viper stood, it looked almost natural. "Only it's a 'he', and he's mine now. Endurance, I've called him. He didn't die on me, so I've grown quite fond of him. Yours did, though. We ate most of it last night." She brushed the stallion's arching throat and inquired, "Did you speak with the Listener?"

"Yes."

Nevada turned—the hideous disfigurement to her face remained as bold and terrible as she remembered it, the flesh painfully raw and pink compared to her pale complexion and the stark crimson upon her attire. "And?" the Nord demanded. "Are you going to stay?"

Viper frowned. "You knew she would ask me that?"

"Knew?" Nevada snorted. "I was the one to ask her to ask you."

" _You_ want me to stay?" Viper was bewildered. "So I picked a few locks and hauled you onto the rafters a few times…"

"My leader believes yours betrayed you to the Dragonlords. I believe my leader. Do you believe yours?"

Viper gave a short, angry sigh, but found no words.

"Thought so." The Nord assassin's voice softened slightly. "You can't return to what you were. Your skills are perfect for the life I lead. You didn't say no?"

"I haven't said yes." Viper paused. "I don't think."

"Better start thinking, then. You haven't left Sanctuary yet. I have a feeling you won't, and if you do, you'll come back." Nevada glanced at her. "You're not officially one of us yet. You're still a virgin to this, haven't taken your first life—but you saved mine, and to that I'm grateful. No matter what goes down in the future…"

She rested her unscarred hand upon Viper's shoulder and nodded. "…I'm proud to call you Sister. And before you ask, yes; Cadmir cannot find us here. We are free of him, and Ollos, too."

 **d|b**


	32. XXXI - Pure of Blood

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

Chase harboured no regret for what she'd done; in fact, she was rather proud of her accomplishment. The chieftain was dead, and she'd killed him—so by all rights, the clan should be hers.

But this was not the achievement she'd intended. It mattered not to her if she was now the equivalent of alpha over these bandits. Her loyalty remained firm and fast to her pack, and _her_ alpha was waiting for her to provide the answer.

 _Unite the packs,_ Chase thought, turning the dragon's egg over in her hands. _That's what we need. Something to unite all of them. This is it, I know it is…and now that it is mine, I must learn the secret as to hatching it._

This egg was already stained in blood—that of its mother, which she'd herself killed, its life's scarlet a fresh red memory, and also of Gramu, who'd been so bold as to deny the law and privilege of the hunt over his own greed. At least he'd been satisfied with the result of the lair hunt—and how Chase hated him now, because if not for her releasing him, he'd be in her place, fuming over the egg's unwillingness to respond.

She could feel the life inside. Her hunter's senses never let her down in either skin she wore, and there was life beneath the shell. This puzzled her somewhat—it had been encased in solid ice. Was this what dragons did with their young, entomb them in the frozen substance until it was time for them to hatch? _So should it be returned into ice, or placed underground, somewhere without heat?_ _Is that how this kind of creature grows?_

Maybe it was of the frost variety—Chase couldn't picture a firebreather making its den beneath the snow, surrounded in cold. _Whatever dragon it is,_ she thought with a frown, placing the egg once more on the floor in front of her, _I must figure out how to waken it, before I return to my pack. They wouldn't have any use for an unborn_ krag-nalihr _…_

She swallowed back a wry snort. _The fourth bloody day I've been doing this, and what have I accomplished?_ Nothing that she'd wanted; dissention in the bandit clan, and not a flicker of movement from the creature coiled within the safety of its jewel-hard shell.

Nobody was happy with the thought of her assuming the post of chieftain. The least happiest with this idea was Chase herself. She'd returned with Amos and that other one she'd nearly killed in the lair, and the clan learned the dragon was dead, their chieftain was dead, and she'd been the one to put down both. She told them a story of how the Warglutton decided to make off with the egg and leave the clan with nothing gained from this venture—she'd be amazed if any of them believed it. They'd exchanged dark looks, looked at her warily, muttered. They didn't want her as leader—to them, she was still their dog, the tame werewolf that came out only when there was prey afoot—but what could they do? They knew she'd changed quite suddenly in a matter of weeks. They'd seen what she was capable of doing to her mortal prey. None dared to name her anything but the human one they'd given her when she'd first come to them all those years ago, a savage child of the wilderness.

But there was Estilde. She remained dissatisfied and her suspicions mounted by the day. Chase was fully aware of this, and waited for when the Nord would finally snap.

 _None of them are any concern of mine._ Chase stretched herself out a little, easing the cramps tightening her limbs. _But this egg…it feels important, and it will be used to help the pack._

She didn't really know how, though; the spontaneous idea that had come into her mind upon first sight of the damned thing was ludicrous, ridiculous, and yet not entirely stupid. There were no better killers of dragons than dragons. She could somehow hatch the thing, make it believe its loyalty was owed to her, and therefore to Shirju and the Pack of the White Sun…and all the packs would rally, wouldn't they?

 _Or would they only be insulted? Wolves and their pride…_ Sudden doubt seized her. _Maybe this egg isn't the answer, just like killing the mother with a pack of men…the idea seemed right, seemed true, but something was missing, and it didn't feel right._

Chase leaned back, worried. _This thing is important. I'm sure of it._

But she'd been sure of a lot of things, and all hadn't proved as right as she'd hoped them to be. Her instinct to know what was right and wrong was poor, at best; she only knew what she'd been taught since infancy and childhood, the certain mind of a hunter, and those kinds of minds weren't the most imaginative. _We follow the law of the hunt, nothing more or less. We follow the law of the pack, facing shame and exile if it is not heeded. It is remarkably simple. This is complex…yes, there is a human part of me, however faint, but_ Shirju-az'raghal _believes that there is an answer and only I can find it. His wisdom far exceeds my own._

Chase closed her eyes and leaned back with a soft snarl of brooding frustration. By her goddess mother, it needed release, _she_ needed release. She hadn't changed since the dragon was killed and the egg was plucked from the den's frigid embrace, since she'd grasped Gramu's heart and drank his blood, bathing in his fear and fading life. She needed release, and hungered for warm flesh. The scant offerings in the camp were hardly whetting her appetite.

 _But I dare not leave this. It will be gone if I take my eyes from it for a moment._

Dragons' eggs—the most valued useless thing the world had ever known. The thought of holding the unborn life of a mortal oppressor and feeling so strong, so powerful in its helplessness…how men were driven to the thought of a dragon's egg, just to feel this way, like a mortal god. It was a completely pointless need. Nothing could be gained from obtaining an egg but to risk incurring the wrath of the adults. If one succeeded in ever hatching it, it would soon realize its natural pride and most likely turn on its supposed masters, take flight and place with its own kinfolk.

But Chase didn't know that for certain. _You never know. It's well known that the dragons' loyalties lie with the stronger player. They wouldn't follow the World-Eater if he was weak._ So perhaps her original plan could work…so long as she asserted herself the dominant one over the hatchling, right from the start, in its gullibility it would believe wolves to be its true masters, not its own kin. If it ever needed to be reminded of its place, she could do that, easily. She'd killed its mother. A growing, learning hatchling would be no different. At such a tender age, it was vulnerable. It would be so easy to shape its mind, to make it fear even the thought of turning on her or if the idea ever seeded in its head that it was stronger than the pack.

 _And it will drink the wolf milk._ The milk of the wolf was binding. Wherever a pup drank it, its loyalty was owed lifelong to its mother's devotions. _To repay its debt of being taken in and nurtured by that pack, it must pay with its life, a lifetime of serving that pack as a hunter. The dragon's young will be no different. I will ensure it no different._

 _But first I must learn how to waken it._

She sat cross-legged on the floor of Gramu's tent, which had become hers. She disliked sitting at the table. It was uncomfortable and unpleasantly different—even his bed—so she cleared a large space on the dirt floor and crouched there with her skin pressed against the rough soil. The egg perched across from her, quite steady sitting on a rounded end. The murky candlelight in the tent made the shell gleam. Chase considered it quite beautiful. It seemed grey in a certain light, and bluish in another. The shell was ridged in delicate patterns, but the parts where it wasn't were as smooth as water.

She reached out to it again, touched it, caressed its surface and traced its ripples and whorls. She wondered if the imperfections helped the little thing inside to hatch.

 _But how does it? Does it just wake naturally, like a bird in a nest? Then why had its mother hidden it in ice? Unless that's where they place their egg in a hope of hiding it from a threat…_ Chase was only guessing, but she suspected she was growing better at making them. She raised her hand and flexed the fingers thoughtfully. They tingled in memory of driving a ghastly wound into the dragon's soft underside as it fled. _Back to her lair. Back to her unborn child. I drove her back, made her realize just how much a threat I was to her…and she failed defending the egg. It's mine now. Your child is mine, and belongs now to the pack._

But it would belong to no-one if it never hatched.

Chase growled to herself. _I'm going around in circles. This will gain me no answers…_

Perhaps she should turn to Lupa. Had the hunt of the dragon not pleased her goddess mother? _But what would she know of the offspring of_ krag-nalihr _? She hates them as much as the packs. She sees them now as unworthy hunters of this world. They have driven her children to anger. That she cannot forgive._

 _So where is my place in this? A bloody destiny I have made for myself, she said…or perhaps she meant that I am yet to make it._

Footsteps from beyond the tent stirred her from her brooding. Chase seized the egg and stood at the same instant a familiar scent rode the breeze inside. "Amos," she muttered, and clutching her prize, she stalked outside to meet him.

The night was aging, the last of the sun fading, and the sharpness of the dying dusk pricked where her skin was bare. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the Redguard, who stumbled to a halt as she approached. His dark stare briefly landed upon the egg in her arms before darting away. _He still bewares it, an egg and the dragon both._ Chase curled her lip. _Weakling._ "Well? What is it?" she barked. "Fear clings to you like a shadow."

Amos shook his head. "It's Estilde."

Chase smiled. _And it begins._ "So it's tonight, then."

"You expected her to betray you?" the bandit said, bewildered.

"She was never going to buy the story." She strode to him and seized his collar. "I'm surprised she waited for as long as she did. How many follow her? How many?"

"Half the clan." Wariness clouded his voice. "All our strongest warriors…and they have fire. You didn't smell the smoke, did you? You were too busy mulling over that…that commodity!"

Chase didn't answer him at once. She lifted her head and tasted the air. The tang of smoke was quite familiar to her here, but made aware, the stench of it was stronger than she remembered. _There are only two things that the wolf may fear,_ she thought, _silver and fire, those that boil our blood._ Her lip curled in disgust. _So that's how you choose to play it, then. But I can play your game. Let's make this an interesting hunt, shall we, pack traitor?_

"Where are they?" she whispered.

Amos swallowed. _He won't stop me._ He still had the bruises on his neck. "At the entrance," he said. "They're waiting for you. They want you to come alone. No others are to participate in this. The rest of the clan isn't even sure if they should or not."

"Like I need them." She released him, and pressing the egg securely into the crook of her arm, began to make her way through the encampment.

"Chase, wait!" Amos shouted. "There doesn't have to be bloodshed! Estilde only wants leadership, nothing more!"

"There's always more," Chase snarled. _And she isn't going to have it._

"They'll kill you," he yelled, "they'll kill you over that gods-damned dragonspawn!"

 _They're not going to kill me._ Chase could feel the life in the egg. She sensed a tiny heart beating alongside her own, and knew that the hatchling was hers. _It is mine, won by the right of the hunt. It may only be taken from me when I confess defeat. So long as I live and breathe, that shall never pass from my lips._

The camp was quiet, the cooking fires empty. The smell of smoke grew stronger as she drew nearer to the road entrance, mingled with the scent of many bandits, and one in particular she recognized. _Estilde is indeed waiting for me. What was the term Gramu uses to describe such an incident as this? Mutiny. She heads this mutiny upon me._ Her smile turned wry. _I can taste its fetid stench in my mouth, but it is unsurprising to me. I detected it right from the beginning._

The wolf would indeed be satisfied tonight, but not as it had done before. _I will feed most differently this hour of blood. Does it not delight in intrigue?_

She smiled still as Estilde came into sight. Scythe was drawn, resting in her hands, but she stood behind her fellow mutineers, every one of them bearing torches. Chase looked upon the familiar faces. Many regarded her in anger. Even more looked fearfully determined. _Even like this, I intimidate them._

A part of this was her fault, she granted; her authority should have been better asserted as alpha from the very first day. Then many of them would have lived to see the dawn. But there still would have been the discontented, who would've finally given in to their frustrations and made their displeasures known. It was the way of the beast, and these bandits were men and women who lived as such. _Preying on the weak, their loyalty owed only to the stronger. It is not out of love for Gramu that Estilde does this. Her resentment for me has reached its pinnacle._

The Nord bandit chucked her chin. "I didn't expect you to come in this skin!"

Chase grinned. "I'm not as craven as you, Esti."

"You call this cowardice?" Estilde gestured to the poor souls who stood between them. "We confront you, we openly challenge your right to lead, and we openly express our disgust at your cowardly murder of our chieftain! You usurp his position—nor will we ever answer to a _dog!_ "

Anger darkened Chase's thoughts. _I will make her squeal for this._ "Here I am," she roared, "vulnerable to anything you throw at me. Why don't you come down and show me just how well Scythe can cut things?" A twisted smile lit her lips. "You ought to know, what you told me about using those ungainly things you call 'weapons', it helped with cracking the riddle of killing Gramu!"

Estilde scowled. "You've been a good and faithful hound, Chase—that's why I'm giving you an opportunity. I know your weaknesses. Fire is as wicked as silver to your ungodly ilk, and there's more than enough of us to burn your bones. We'll let you out and back into the wilds. We'll let you return to the curs you call a pack. But you surrender yourself first, that and your undeserving title as chief—and you'll leave the egg."

Chase started laughing. _Blood and more blood to be shed over this single life! A bloody destiny indeed, my Mother!_ "You think I'm afraid of you?" she called. "Living among you for all this time has done wonders to how I perceive my threats. I've lived around you all for years! I'm not such the beast you believe me to be that you can show me the flames and send me running with my tail between my legs! No, I'm not afraid of the fire, nor am I of any traitor—especially you, Estilde. I know you too well to be remotely scared."

"So that's a 'no', then," Estilde snarled.

Chase nodded to the dragon egg. "This is mine. I killed its mother. I won it."

"You used us to get to the bloody thing."

"Unintentionally. I didn't even know the dragon had offspring."

"You _used_ us, _dog_." The human bristled with fury. "You won't slink off—fine. Burning you suits us even more."

"You challenge me, Estilde," Chase announced. "Pack law dictates the right of leadership is won in blood, the title claimed only from a cold dead corpse. The clan isn't the pack, so I'm not going to be myself for this. I want to see just how well all this fodder can swing their weapons, and how many shit themselves when I kill you all with one hand. Keep the torches if you will. It'll only make the last ones to die shit quicker."

She tensed as she crouched, tucking the egg more securely into the crook of her arm. Her left was cradling it while her right would be doing the killing.

Estilde shook her head at her. "Die as you live, dog. Kill her."

The bandits swarmed, and Chase allowed the one final jibe to ignite the festering fury in her. _I am no dog on a leash,_ she smiled, savouring the wolf's strength as it flowed through her, as natural as water in a river. Bloodlust roared in its primal voice, fuelling her need. As she flew at the first traitorous man, her sight was tinted red, and the rush of her heart bellowed in her ears.

How her wakened instincts cried for joy as her fist punched into his unsuspecting, unguarded throat and tore it clean out in a spray of scarlet.

She heard the clumsy sweep of the steel blade and dived accordingly. She didn't even need to move her feet, just duck and tear the bearer's jugular. A second fell, and the third pounced over the crumpling corpse with a thrust of the blazing brand. Chase closed her eyes, twisted, snatched the man's hand as the heat seared past her ear, and dislocated his limb with a tug. He shrieked, in just as much amazement as agony. _He did not anticipate,_ she smiled, kicking his knees out from under him, _just how inhuman I can be._ She grasped his skull and snapped his head to face behind as he folded.

They kept coming, men and women she'd seen around the fires, and watched in combat with ambushed travellers. Some she'd known for as long as she'd been with this clan, others she'd witnessed sign on. All were easy prey. She might have believed it to be too easy, if not for the strain behind each of their thrusts, or the unhidden panic in their eyes as she conquered their every means of defense. There was no greater plan, no intended sacrifice; all this was a simple barbaric mutiny gone terribly wrong for them.

What was fire in the hands of one who knew nothing of it? No, the flames were never a threat. Chase tore the torches from the hands of their unknowing bearers—and the hands as well, if they had a grip they refused to slacken. The bodies piled around her. The weapons were nothing. Frantic and predictable. How these lowly warriors clung to them. How helpless they were without them.

Perhaps the worthiest of all these mutineers were the few spellcasters the clan had. All had sided with Estilde, and all cast infernos about them, warding off her attacks. Chase suspected their intention the moment she saw their silhouettes doubling around—they were going to surround her and burn her in a circle of fire. This was a foolish mistake, for in the process of arranging themselves their concentration was not wholly on their sending flames. She broke the circle before it had finished forming, lunging for the least experienced, whose frantic defense was swift to fail as she lifted him by his neck, crushed it, and flung him into the strongest mage. As both fell, one struggling to rise again, she advanced, crushed his wrists, and allowed him to realize the error of his ways as she turned upon the last two magicians. They'd only numbered four. Clumsy and desperate in their terror, they rapidly succumbed to her fury. Only then did she turn back to the suffering mage she'd left alive, and end him.

And by then Estilde had entered the conflict.

"You unholy monster," the Nord snarled, hefting her mighty Scythe around over her head, "I've waited a long time for this!"

"So have I," Chase breathed, and sprang from the greatsword's path.

Did Estilde honestly think such a fight could be concluded so easily? As the Nord wrenched the gleaming blade from the dirt, Chase clenched her bloodstained fist and punched her. The force of the blow nearly knocked Estilde over, and she gasped in amazement at the force of it.

"Surprised?" Chase grinned.

"You should be dead," Estilde snarled, but she was struggling to keep up her composure. She stumbled where she stood, wheezing from the blow that surely cracked her ribs. "Nineteen of us! Nineteen! You're weak like this…weakest like this…"

Chase hooked the bandit's legs from under her, and as she fell to her knees, her grip slackened. Such an advantage could not be missed. One hand closed around her elbow, and tightened. How Estilde screamed as bone splintered beneath her flesh. Scythe could not be held, and the greatsword thudded into the crimson dust, a piece of impotent metal.

"I'm vulnerable like this," Chase hissed, seizing her enemy's neck. "I'm remarkably vulnerable. I can be killed so easily. Look at me. I don't wear armour. I hold no weapons. I didn't even use both my hands. Any weapon, any spell, affects me as it affects you. But you have quite forgotten what I really am, and this is your greatest regret. I am not like any other in this world, Estilde."

She tightened her grip around the bandit's throat and snarled, "I am no dog. I am the wolf, and I am _pureborn_." She saw the fear in Estilde's eyes and was almost satisfied. "I see a bloody fantasy in my mind," Chase breathed. "I'm twisting limbs, snapping spines, and crushing a skull that bears your face. I'm tempted, you know. So tempted…"

Estilde mustered the last of her courage. "Go to hell, bitch."

 _How apt,_ Chase grinned. "I'll see you there."

She tightened her grasp, felt bones crack beneath her touch. Estilde jerked once, then never moved again.

For a moment, all was still, and quite pleasantly calm.

Then Chase recalled that there were still a few who were yet to try their luck. She stood suddenly and looked at them—five marauders, three of whom she'd known for years, their drawn faces sharply defined in the firelight of their torches.

 _There is no question now who leads this rabble._

There was a fouler, unsavoury scent about them as well. "The last ones to die," she observed, with a broadening smile. She slowly rose, wondering how she must appear to them—she could feel the sweet, sticky gore on her skin, dripping from her fingertips. She would bathe after her roaring appetite was whetted.

And what a feast awaited her.

 **d|b**


	33. XXXII - Lineage

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

The three days lingered here in the mountains amid the most wanted men in Tamriel were more wearisome than the week spent in _Kodaavnahkip_.

Ross probably wouldn't have stayed if not for his horse. The journey had tired him, and the long walk through the night to the encampment had indeed harried his wound, but three sunrises later he was fit and healthy once more, the discomfort of his injury but a distant memory. To that, Ross was relieved and quite pleased. "You are a tough one, my friend," he murmured into the stallion's ear as he rubbed him down.

At least his time here had given him an opportunity to prepare himself for his future journeys to come. He whiled the hours away fixing wears and tatters in his saddle—that took half a day alone—and when this was done, repairing various abrasions in his clothes. He sewed off the ragged, frayed ends of his cloak and fixed up the worn holes in his raiment until, more or less, he was all whole and new again. That took a long and thoughtful day of doing. It was the most peaceful he'd had in quite a while, and he slept deeply that night.

He tended to avoid the company of the Raiders as a natural trend he'd developed in himself. He didn't care to venture too far or too frequently from the stables, where amid a presence of large and thickset Skyrim-bred steeds, his own lean mount had been tethered. The physical difference between the two breeds was almost amusing. _Comparing a Skyrim elk with a Heartland deer,_ Ross thought, brushing the dust from the hide of his good beast.

He'd explored the encampment, certainly; he'd walked the whole length of it and surmised that Stormbear's forces were, at most, four hundred. He presumed another hundred were mingled inconspicuously amidst the people. _This is no fighting force for war,_ the freerider frowned. _There may be just enough to secure the east…but Kaarn's gambling that the whole province will rally under his banner once flown loud and proud for all to see. There's no way he can reclaim Skyrim with just five hundred angry souls._

Though at this point he was willing to believe it could be accomplished; Kaarn Stormbear was someone he had not expected at all. Ross wondered how the dragons would take it when (for it seemed inescapable) they learned of the young prince. _The Greensmile knew what to expect with the young bear before I did,_ he frowned. _Many underestimate Kaarn…even the messenger. Does this warden have spies among the Raiders? How in Oblivion did he know the real mind of Stormbear?_

His countenance darkened somewhat the longer he thought of the Raider chieftain. He'd seen little of him in the passing sunrises; when Kaarn was not in his tent, he was someplace else, wherever his men had taken their dragonman prisoner. Ross did not like the thought of interrogation—in these times they were always dreadfully painful experiences—and the mere idea of what these marauders might be doing to their captive to gain the answers they needed…

 _They won't be kindly men,_ he told himself firmly, easing a knot from his horse's mane, _but they wouldn't go so far to be Ollos._ These Nords still remembered honour, beneath all their hostility and unduly caution; to sink so far as a Dragonlord's methods of extraction would go against everything they upheld, wouldn't it?

But a change had come over Kaarn when he'd been presented with this bound enemy; something colder and more heartless had become him in that moment, one that made Ross especially uncomfortable. _He's got generations' worth of bitterness in his heart,_ he thought, _so maybe that can be forgiven. To him and to all who follow him, the whole world is their enemy._ He rubbed idly at the healing bruises against his throat. _And they treat their threats with the utmost sincerity._

He groomed his mount outside his stall, so the watery sun warmed them both throughout the task. Ross was immensely proud of his steed. He was a handsome bay-black, with a jagged white stripe running the length of his head, and white socks on all his feet. How many travels they'd shared and dangers they'd braved…With a relieved smile, Ross stroked the handsome head. "I don't know what I would've done if I'd let that damned bear take you," he murmured, combing the forelock through.

A low chuckle intruded upon their privacy. "You give that animal more coddling than a newborn babe."

"Why wouldn't I?" said Ross curtly, not bothering to grace the speaker with a glance. "He's the only friend I have in this world."

"Yeah, but you choose that." The Raider sauntered around until Ross could see him beneath his mount's head. "Nice horse," he observed. "Bit runty, but he must be quick."

"Like me," said Ross, "he was born in Cyrodiil."

"Hmph," the Nord commented. He was shaggy-haired, grizzled, and remarkably brawny, his hair so pale it looked more silver than blond. Saying that, he wasn't elderly. "What's it you call him?" he inquired in a moment.

Ross smiled at that. He'd once considered naming his horse, then decided against it. "We travel nameless, both of us."

"Wise, I suppose," the Nord said. "So it'll be useless asking for your name, then?"

"What do you want with it?"

"I was interested in acquainting myself with you."

Ross looked at him fully. "What in Nirn for?"

The Nord grinned through his tangled beard. "Two reasons, Imperial: Kaarn trusts you, so I do; and I know you hate the dragons as much as the next freedom-fighter here."

Those were good reasons. "Jared," said Ross. "It's Jared."

The Raider was not so easily fooled. "That isn't the real one, though, is it?"

"It's the best you'll have from me."

"Good answer!" he chuckled. "Well then, mine's Stalbreic—and that _is_ the real one, for me. We're all brothers and sisters here. You can call me Stal like everyone else. Stalbreic's a bit of a mouthful."

"Names that tend to be a mouthful are often the most intriguing," Ross offered. "Either name you've offered is fine with me." He frowned suddenly. "You wouldn't happen to be the man who almost killed me a few days ago?"

Stal grinned. "If only, eh? Nah, most likely you'll have Mralki to thank for that. I wasn't on that patrol that found you dogging around our mountains."

"I didn't know they were 'your' mountains."

"Well, they sure as hell ain't the dragons'. Besides, 'twas in these stone hills clan Stormbear was founded. We've been in and out over the generations, to hear my old da say it."

Ross smiled a little. "What are you really here for, Stalbreic?"

"Two reasons." A stall door creaked open. "One is that I'm one of these few lucky bastards here to have a horse of his own, and you gotta look after 'em."

Stal flanked Ross with one of the massive brutes in the stables, a dappled grey destrier. It looked almost as shaggy as its master, and stood at least a head taller than the Cyrodilic counterpart. "My gods," Ross exclaimed, "you call that a horse?"

The Raider chuckled. "No, I call him Vanguard. You can see why."

Ross certainly could. The horse looked as solid as the mountains around them, and almost as grizzled as Stalbreic's tangled beard. "And here's something interesting about him," said Stal, "he's the bigger one who takes half the time to groom than yours."

"Being tall helps," Ross observed, looking the large Nord up and down.

Stal grinned. "Aye, and less sentimentality does, too."

"I can't help it," Ross defended, swapping his brush for a hoof pick. "He and I are one against the world. The moment I donned this fox pin, I left behind my family, all my childhood friends, and adopted a new way of living. It's a bit of a lonely life, and quite dangerous at times, but it's an earnest one, and greatly rewarding."

"I've heard that before," said Stalbreic, sweeping his destrier's mottled hide with a stiff-bristled brush. "We Nords of Old live much the same, you know. We don't plunder the territory because we enjoy plundering. We don't rebel because we delight in rebellion. We do it for the good of Skyrim, but it takes its toll—but I tell you, it's good to have purpose. A real driving force that keeps a man going. Tell me, Jared, what's your purpose?"

"As a freerider? Delivering messages."

"Aye to that, but what's your _purpose?_ Your motive to keep going?"

This took a little longer to answer. "Staying alive," Ross said at last. "Movement is life, and my life was what I always cared about more than anything." He scraped the final bit of mud from his horse's hoof and moved to another. "It's selfish, I know. That's when I decided, when I was just a fresh-faced lad still growing up south of this bloody frosty land, that I'd spend my valued life helping others who can't up and leave like I did. So I bought my horse, a freshman like me, newly-broken at four, and started riding. And I didn't stop."

"You became a freerider," Stalbreic remarked. "Which leads to the next question; how do you become one? I can't just see you walking into a smithy's and asking them to fashion a pin with a fox on it, else everyone'd be doing that, dragonmen spies, reading everyone's messages."

"It's hard to obtain a pin," Ross admitted. "You have to build a reputation of trustworthiness. Ensuring the message reaches the other end. You'd be surprised at how quickly freeriders hear about this sort of thing. One of them found me one day, three years after I'd started, and found me decent. She gave me a message that I was to deliver to a blacksmith in what used to be Cheydinhal."

"She, eh?"

"A Redguard," Ross said, remembering. "Said I could call her Vixen, but her name was known only to the scattered wind. Her logic was what inspired me to keep my name scattered, too. As it turned out, the letter she gave me was a direct reference to a smith she trusted, who fashioned me this pin before my eyes. It's authentic, because there's a particular inlay he uses for the pin's edges. It's a secret that assures I'm who I say I am, and he'll only make a pin like this if I have written recommendation from another freerider."

Stalbreic chuckled. "So it's more intricate than it seems."

Ross smiled wryly. "Everything is, isn't it?"

"So you found your way north, then?"

"Aye, for business. This was before the south began to burn. I went to Skyrim because I suspected their need for messengers in the centre of the dragon dominion was greater, so I'd have more patronage. The first two years were the toughest. I barely knew the land. I was always getting lost. I was completely unprepared for the sort of weather you lot get up here."

Stal was laughing now. "Snowstorms, hail, sleet, cold spells…"

"Pretty much." Ross shook his head as he proceeded to muck out a third hoof. "And there were dragons. Everywhere. Dragons. They were much rarer in Cyrodiil. Up here they're as common as birds. That was another unpleasant surprise. But I was good, then, good at getting around unnoticed. They never bothered me and I never was dumb enough to bother them. I've officially lived in Skyrim for fifteen years, going on sixteen next Rain's Hand."

"Hmm." Stalbreic finished brushing off the stallion and started on the enormous hooves. "And when did you first venture into sweet Skyrim?"

"Just after I turned twenty-four."

"Talos, you're old."

Ross spared a glance at the massive Nord. "What, and you're young, are you?"

Stalbreic grinned. "Anyone coming up to their fortieth year is considered old, freerider. By then most people are considering settling down—well, those unfortunate enough to live lawfully. So you had no love life, no life at all but in the saddle riding free?"

"Pretty much," Ross replied. "I've been doing this longer than I haven't."

"I can tell by the way you dote on that animal of yours."

"He and I have been through everything together."

"See, that's where you and I diverge as proud horse-masters; I've had Vanguard for eleven, twelve years, and he's not the first I've owned. You've been on that speedster's back for an unhealthily long time, and that's grown on you."

"A freerider's only as good as his horse."

"He's the love in your life, Imperial. Whatever happened to a woman?"

Ross snorted back his amusement. "I don't know. I've met a lot of women in my travels. None of them were the kind I could have any kind of lasting relationship with."

"Sweet Talos!" Stal exclaimed suddenly. "You mean to say you're forty years old and a virgin?"

"Thirty-nine," Ross corrected, "and so what? I've never felt a desire for that sort of thing."

"You're shitting me…no, you're not. Good gods, you haven't lived at all!" Stalbreic placed a hand over his heart. "I'm bloody insulted! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"No."

"Stendarr have mercy on your soul, Jared. You might as well be a goddamned eunuch."

Ross rolled his eyes as he picked out his stallion's final hoof. "And I'm guessing you've had a boisterous love life."

"Ha!" Stalbreic boomed. "Here there's a third as many women as there're men, and all are quite capable of putting an axe through your brain. I tell you, it's easier to tame a horse."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Remind me, you vestal freerider, how long is it you've now been here?"

"Three days."

"You talked long and hard with Kaarn the first morning, and not a peep to him since."

Ross straightened and frowned at the Raider. "He hasn't talked with me since the dragonman was brought into the camp."

"Ah, that one." Stal scowled. "No wonder, then. The young bear will have a lot to ask him about. And I should thank you, I suppose."

"For what?"

"For telling him about his uncle."

Ross looked away. "That's something to thank me about, is it?"

"That wasn't tactful, I know, but I'm a very blunt sort of person. Delicacy isn't always a Nord's strong suit, Imperial, we don't like to play with cadences as much." Stalbreic stood up and sighed, a troubled frown creasing his lined face. "But how long that kid's been in the shadow of doubt since the ambush in the Asodar…it's better he knows the truth, cold and hard as it may be. And it's better I knew as well, for certain, though Ulfric was a dead man the instant the dragons got him."

"You knew him?"

"Everyone knows everyone, but I had the privilege of particularly knowing the man." Stalbreic took the bridle of Vanguard in hand. "Shall we walk the beasts? It's been a while since Van last got out of his stall."

"Why not?"

Side by side—Ross on the left of his horse, Stal to the right of his—they strolled through the encampment with the two steeds trudging obediently at their sides.

"So tell me about Ulfric, then," Ross prompted.

Stal released his breath in one slow exhale. "Can't say we were always on the best of terms," he said. "I knew the two Stormbear brothers. Ulfric was the older who never liked me much. I first knew the younger, Bjord, Kaarn's father. In fact, he and I were born in the same year. We were boys together, grew up together. It was always Ulfric who got the attention, though—he was the firstborn, the natural mind needed to conduct this next generation of the resistance. Bjord was the younger, so he had a looser rein. He was, however, a bit more of an idiot."

Ross blinked. "He was Kaarn's father?"

Stalbreic laughed. "Ulfric was six years Bjord's senior, and thrice as mature as he had a right to be. He had a natural tactician's mind and a bloody good hand with both sword and axe. He took over the leadership of the resistance at twenty-nine; his aged mother, the Lady Sira Stormbear, took ill from fever and died shortly after Bjord's twenty-third birthday. Her two little brothers, Kaarn the First and Ulfric the Second, had died decades back, so Ulfric the Third as her eldest son assumed the title of Ysgramor's Heir.

"As you can imagine, this distanced himself even further from his younger brother. Bjord was a talented and majestically spirited warrior, and there was no finer rider in all the east, but he utterly lacked the sense and self-discipline needed of a Stormbear. The two brothers never really got on, and were happier when apart. Complete opposites, they were; even looked different. Ulfric, like most of his predecessors, was fair-haired, but Bjord's locks were as umber as burnt wood. No trouble telling them apart, in any case. It was Ulfric who served as the rebellion's leader, but always going to be Bjord who continued the line." Stalbreic grinned. "He and I were quite the amorous young men."

"You can spare me that detail," said Ross in exasperation.

"I'm going to, out of pity. It's quite safe to say Ulfric did not like me at all back in the day. I did nothing to encourage a bit of sense in Bjord. We did everything together, with or without his permission. Then one day he meets one of our charming woman warriors, and it evolves into more than a one-night stand. He soon lost interest in every other woman in the camp. Thirty-four, and he'd finally found himself a lover he wasn't so willing to give up."

"Kaarn's mother, I guess."

"Aye, though it was never bound in matrimony. The dolt got himself killed in a dragonhunt." Stal sighed, the mirth fading from his eyes. "He knew full well he had a kid coming. Everyone did. Ulfric had never shown any interest in a woman—rather like you, come to think of it—so it was up to Bjord to further the blood. That was his greatest accomplishment. He didn't even manage a heroic death. He pulled a remarkably stupid stunt on the dragon he was fighting, in a moment of his characteristic brashness—and he was killed because of it." The Nord sighed and dug a fist into both eyes. "Lived an idiot, died as one. Nothing less from him."

"Am I allowed to ask what got him killed?" asked Ross.

"I said earlier Bjord was a good rider. He thought himself so good he'd ride the goddamned dragon. There were two of them, you see, so he mounted one to pitch it against the other—only dragons aren't mindless animals, they're perfectly intelligent, and a good deal more than Bjord ever was. The instant he jumped on its neck, it flew, straight up into the sky. It must have been level with the peak of the Throat of the World when it threw him off. Bjord fell to his death."

Stalbreic sighed deeply. "I'm sorry to hear that," said Ross softly.

The Nord rolled his shoulders. "Things changed after that. I lost my stupidity in the face of that. I was the one who told Ulfric. He grieved. We grieved together. In that, we set aside our differences, and that was the first step to our friendship. I watched over Bjord's would-be spouse, set aside my old ways, changed for the better. I stopped being a numbskull. Ulfric noticed. He demonstrated his new level of trust for me by naming me godfather to young Kaarn on the day of his birth."

Ross stared at Stal in new eyes. "You're the young bear's godfather?"

"Aye. My greatest accomplishment. But it was always Ulfric young Kaarn looked up to. My gods, those two could've been mistaken for father and son. As it turned out, Kaarn had inherited none of his father's stupidity but every bit of his talent. The old bear never loved a woman, but Mara put love between him and his nephew."

"They were very close, then."

"You haven't gained a sense of that already? Well, it was Kaarn that ultimately brought Ulfric and I together. We became firm friends, he and I, and between us we looked after the boy—the sole heir of this rebellion, now the sole face of it."

"You're sure of that, then?"

"What makes you think otherwise?"

"You said yourself, Bjord had an…appetite for women." Ross was quite uncomfortable speaking about Kaarn's father like this, but it felt all right to with Stalbreic. "You don't think…?"

"…his many mistresses had little Stormbears of their own?" the Raider chuckled. "Well, he could've. Ulfric might not have had them legitimized, though—proud stubborn bastard he was—and Bjord never did bother following up his countless pleasures. I think the old bear was embarrassed by his little brother's stupidity. Can't blame him; looking back on those days, I am, too." Stal heaved a troubled sigh. "His worst lecherous incident was when we plundered _Ahrolstaad_ , the last settlement before Windhelm. We were driving back dragonmen, and he got…a little carried away. I lost him for a while, then located him, and a part of me wished—wishes—I never had. I found him inside a house, with a bloodied woman. She'd served with the dragonmen, but I don't think that was why he wanted to shame her so."

"Why else?" asked Ross, disturbed.

"She was Altmer, and in general there's bad blood between Stormcloaks and High Elves."

"He raped her."

"Aye. I pulled him off. She looked half dead. He'd cut off both her hands. A spellcaster, Bjord told me, which was why he'd done it. No doubt the poor thing died after we went. All the signs pointed to a husband, and we killed a lot of Altmer that night, so who was there to look after her?"

"Did you ever follow up after her?"

Stalbreic shook his head. "I was still a remarkably stupid youth—this was thirty-three years ago now, still in the day of Lady Sira."

"Kaarn doesn't know?"

"No. Ulfric never did indulge Kaarn too much about his less-than-honourable sire, and the kid soon learned to stop asking. He's smart like that. And speaking of Kaarn, I've just been reminded of the second reason why I found you."

Ross frowned. "Second reason?"

"I said I had two before, didn't I? One was for Vanguard, the other was to let you know to meet him in his tent at sunset. He's ready for you."

There was a definite evening feel in the air, so Ross decided he ought to not keep the Raider chieftain waiting much longer. He recognized this area of the camp—the leader's tent was not too far from here. "Do me a favour and take my horse back to the stables," he said, bequeathing the halter rope to his companion.

Stal grinned. "It almost sounds like you trust me, Jared."

"Not enough to give you my real name."

"No, just escorting your love back to his stall. That's trust enough." Chuckling, he turned both horses down a different route. Ross let the last of his exasperation fade with their retreating backs, then turned for the Stormbear's tent.

Kaarn was waiting inside as Ross ducked beneath the flaps. He straightened at the freerider's entrance. "I'm glad you waited," he said. "You have my thanks for your continued patience."

"You asked for my services," said Ross. "I'm happy to provide them, so long as I am paid appropriately."

"You shall, of course." Kaarn presented a sealed letter. "Take this to the Greensmile."

"Your response to his proposal," Ross guessed, taking it.

Kaarn nodded. "I trust you'll ensure this receives him."

"On my honour as the messenger."

"Good." The Raider hesitated for a moment, then added, "There is also this." He proffered a small package wrapped in brown horsehide. "The prisoner we've interrogated has asked that this is brought to his family in Markarth."

Ross furrowed his brow as he accepted the bundle, all his misgivings rising to the surface. "You gained your needed information from this man?" he asked quietly.

"We did what we had to do." Kaarn's tone was steely. "Knowledge is key, and such was needed if we were to ever leave the asylum of the inner mountains. Now we have what we need."

"And his fate?"

"He was released at midmorning."

Ross narrowed his eyes. "You let him go?"

"We released him. From the suffering and madness of this world."

"You mean you killed him."

Kaarn's eyes hardened at once. "It was a warrior's death, worthy of him. He finally yielded what we needed, and we gave him mercy. The dragons would have given him far worse if he ever returned."

"You _killed_ him," Ross exclaimed, stunned. "He was your prisoner, he gave you what you needed—"

"—and we gave him what he deserved." That coldness sounded once more in the young bear's growl. "It was swift and painless, an honourable end for his confession." He paused. "You show unusual concern for such a man, freerider. Are you certain you are neutral still?"

Anger sharpened Ross's tongue. "Do not mistake me, but Nords are not the only people who value honour."

Kaarn straightened. "You claim the dragonman's release was not honourable?"

"He was your captive, already at your mercy."

"And mercy we showed him. Do not presume you know this war we fight, freerider. If the dragonman had been released, he would have been tortured by those he called his fellows, asked questions he could not answer. He would have suffered to them before he succumbed, and _that_ is dishonourable indeed. It was only a question of dying to them or dying to us. Either way, he would have died, but the difference is the manner of it."

Ross graced this with no answer of his own. _It seems you are capable of more than I thought, Stormbear._ "To Markarth, you said?" he asked stiffly.

Kaarn nodded. "His wife, Ashka, is whom he wants this delivered to. Ensure this does, on his honour."

Ross sighed and tucked both letter and package into the hidden pouch on his belt. "But you want this letter delivered to Halling first?"

"That would be preferable. And, freerider, your payment." A pouch of coin was produced and placed on the table. This Ross also took, felt out the coins, and pocketed it securely away. _The warden is yet to pay me for my services,_ he remembered. _I will ensure he does when I return to the greenwood._

"Will you leave tonight or start first thing tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is better for crossing through mountains."

Kaarn nodded. "I'll have Stalbreic informed—he'll escort you to the fringe of the mountains and provide you with supplies to see you to the nearest settlement."

Ross dipped his head. "Thank you." He could surmise what the prince of Eastmarch meant by 'escorting'. "And again, you have my word, not one secret shall pass from my lips of all I've heard and seen here."

"I'll know if you do," said Kaarn, and nodded. "But I trust you to keep to your oath."

Ross turned for the exit, when suddenly Stormbear asked, "Have you been to the Reach recently?"

 _The Reach?_ Ross briefly puzzled over this, then realized, _the stonehold; named for what it was and may be again._ "Not in a few years," he said.

"Then I should warn you now," said Kaarn Stormbear, "have a care—we are not the only dragonhunters in this world."

This Ross found to be a rather suspenseful thing to say, but it had been a rather long time since he last rode west into the ancient hold. He bowed his farewell and departed, gladdened at the thought of travelling once more. _I've had my fill of these utterly unpredictable Nords of Old._

Stalbreic was still at the stables when Ross returned to them. "That was fast," the Raider observed. "Compared to the last time you two were together, at least."

"There was not as much to discuss. I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

"Right, then." Stal smirked. "I guess you know I'm to be your guide. It's all right, Jared. I'm not going to strangle you first."

Ross gave him a dark glare as he draped a blanket over his stalled horse.

"You won't be walking, either. The path is safe to ride."

"Not when the rider has a sack on his head."

"Vanguard leads, yours follows. I know just enough about horses to tell you they're herd animals. And if you want, I'll blindfold you instead. At least you'll breathe fresh air, eh?"

Ross was about to answer when he heard a familiar whirring of feathered wings and a scrabbling of claws on the stable's roof. "Bless my stars!" Stalbreic exclaimed, sounding amazed. "I never thought I'd live to see one of those!"

"What, a raven?" Ross stepped back to glower at the ugly bird. "That nasty creature's been tailing me since the greenwood." The haggard beast studied him quite intently with two gleaming eyes, to the point when he was rather unnerved.

"Mind how you speak to it," Stal defended. "This is a greenwood raven."

"And that's meant to mean something?" said Ross irritably.

The raven shrieked at him. " _Mean! Mean! Mean!_ "

"Gods take you, shut up!"

"Have a care, will you?" Stal snapped, with vigour that astonished Ross. "Wait just one blessed moment—you ain't a Nord, you clearly don't know the story…great Talos, you're misled."

"Is there something I don't know?" inquired Ross.

"By the look of it," said Stalbreic, with a reverent glance at the hideous old raven, now contentedly preening its cobbled feathers. "You've heard about the infamy of the greenwood, haven't you? How old magic still survives there, that the forest is treacherous and full of secrets? You must've, if you've ever made your way to the city there. It's a queer place, and with good reason—Earth Magic never died in those old woods."

"Earth Magic," Ross echoed. "I've heard some about it. Energy drawn from the soul of the world."

"Magic drawn from energy of the souls of every beast upon the world," Stal corrected, lowering his voice. "It's a very violent sort of magic in its ancient state, and it's not the kind you'll find mages studying up north. Certain elder creatures—namely wolves and elk and ravens—are particularly connected to this magic. Now all I know of this are stories, but I've been told that the ravens are the embodying eyes and ears of this magic."

Ross frowned. "You mean to say it's alive?"

"In a way—that's what's really quite extraordinary about this magic, and what makes it so dangerous. It chooses to manifest in various vassals in order to spread its influence throughout the two worlds of beast and mortality. The Glenmoril Witches celebrated this magic and favoured its essence within them. The greatest learned skinshifting, morphing their bodies from mortal to beast, and one animal they favoured coalescing with were ravens."

Ross turned suddenly to the bird. "You mean to suggest…?"

"It's quite possible," said Stal softly. "Have you ever seen such a raven as this before?"

The squalid bird faced them again, once more displaying its rather woebegone appearance.

"You said it followed you from the greenwood?" Stalbreic frowned at Ross. "Why would it do that?"

Before the freerider could answer, the raven croaked. " _Sent. Sent._ " It took flight in a noisy whirring of wings, and—to both men's amazement—dropped a money pouch into Ross's hands.

For a moment, both men were still in its wake.

Then, quite cautiously, Stalbreic rasped, "What the hell was that all about?"

Ross thumbed the pouch, loosed its drawstring, and discovered a pine twig in the neck. "I'm not sure," he said, though he wondered if he was lying to himself. He was suddenly quite certain.

 **d|b**


	34. XXXIII - Transcendence

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

The acolyte Rendal had surrendered to Nurr and his companions was a timid fellow named Auril, whose remarkable ability to decipher language, any language, was rather sadly countered with a fear of pretty much everything. The man feared riding, because he thought the horse would trample him if he fell off. He was scared of the dark, as he had a (perfectly reasonable) phobia of assassins. He trembled at the thought of cold water, as abnormal chills weren't out of the question. Above all, he was terrified of leaving the safety of the Temple, because in the open he would have to experience just those, and more, mainly the idea of a dragon making a quick meal of him.

Of course it took a long time before they were even out the front door.

"We need you," Kierra told the fretful Imperial, with patience Nurr still marveled at. "Our whole mission is compromised if we turn back."

"But so much can go wrong!" Auril exclaimed. "Can't you just make do with a book? I've prepared one, you know, full of phrases that dragons are especially likely to say when they engage in discussion with one another—"

"We all know that isn't going to work," said Kierra with a sigh, "so please, man up a little and get on the horse."

"I'm going to die!"

"No, you're not. Your Blade Brothers and Sisters will protect you with their lives."

"With our weapons, preferably, before our lives," Nurr interjected.

Kierra shot him an exasperated look before turning back to the reluctant acolyte. "Rendal would be remarkably disappointed in you if you missed this opportunity to discover knowledge," she told him. "And you owe Rendal everything."

Auril hesitated at that. "True, true," he muttered. This was succeeded by a long and dubious stare at the saddle of his waiting horse.

"Come on," encouraged Marcel, in a genuine attempt at support. "You're not the only one anticipating the mission, you know."

Nurr gave the boy an exasperated glance. He still couldn't believe he was coming.

"I've never seen Acolyte Auril this nervous before," Raegim observed. She stood quietly, watching, with the reins of her lent garron in one hand.

"Give me something else to think about," Nurr muttered, turning to her. The smith had fixed up something like a smaller, lighter representation of Blades armour especially for his ten-year-old client, which fitted her suitably enough to provide protection, though there were definitely parts that were too big and ill-suited to her stature. The emerald travelling cloak she'd been given looked good on her, though. It contrasted nicely with her pale skin, thick black hair and astonishing blue eyes, and hadn't taken much effort to tailor to her size.

Raegim sensed him watching and turned. "The armour is strange," she admitted, "but I think I can get used to it."

"Don't bother," Nurr advised. "You'll outgrow it soon enough."

"This is only for one time, then."

"Yes. Normally initiates don't leave the Temple until they've been bladed."

"Why not?"

"It takes many years to make a dragonslayer."

"So why am I an exception?"

Nurr grinned. "Because you're my apprentice."

Raegim's eyes smiled.

Kierra succeeded in getting Auril to mount, after solemnly swearing she was going to ride at his side both there and back. Falen was on his horse in a fluid bound and taking the head. Marcel swung himself into the saddle easily enough, but Nurr held him back. "You'll serve as the rear guard," he rasped. "Raegim and I follow Kierra."

Marcel nodded quickly. "As you say."

"Nurrkha'jay."

Nurr turned, puzzled at the apprehension in Raegim's voice. "What is it?"

She was embarrassed as she confessed, "I've never ridden before."

 _Full of surprises, isn't she?_ "And you failed to mention this until now because…?"

"I didn't want the others to hear." Raegim glanced after them. "They won't think I'm ready for this. They'll see me as a hindrance. I think Kierra already does."

"Kierra won't say a word," Nurr promised. _If she does, I'll enjoy vividly recounting the story of her first lair raid to all these listening ears._ "Anyway, there's not much to riding. Your main goal is to stay on. Go round to your horse's left, put your left foot in the stirrup, and vault yourself onto its back." How better to relate this to her? "It's like climbing. Just pull yourself up."

He held the pony's reins as Raegim did this. She stumbled a little, but managed to get herself into the saddle in her first attempt. "Good," Nurr praised, placing the reins into her hands. "Thumbs on top, and give the beast a nudge with your heels to get it going."

The girl nodded quickly. She now seemed more excited than uncertain. _First-timers at riding usually are,_ Nurr recalled, as he proceeded to vault himself upon his own steed and take the waiting reins in hand. The others had already drawn on ahead. He spurred his animal into motion, and Raegim did the same. Side by side, as if they knew their riders' intentions, horse and pony began to follow the familiar trail into the highlands. Dutiful Marcel brought up the rear, though Nurr was fairly certain he'd still have to keep an ear out for danger. This was the young Blade's first mission as well, but his inexperience was almost painful.

"Keep your feet in the stirrups," Nurr advised, "and your back straight. Your garron's going to be doing all the walking for you." He glimpsed a telltale bulge beneath the girl's cloak and remarked, "You've a bow of your own?"

"Slag fashioned one for me before we left," said Raegim. "He's very talented. He worked all night on it."

Nurr recalled the orphaned Orc lad who showed prestigious talent with both the forge and handling the Temple's horses. He fully suspected friendship between the two initiates. "It's decent, though?" he inquired.

"More than the one I've been using in the Temple."

"Good answer."

"It's true," Raegim defended. "If I get an opportunity, I'll demonstrate."

"Hope for no such opportunity," Nurr frowned. The Karth roared below them, its waters churning with a night's worth of rainfall. "This is a mission of observation. I persuaded Emilyn for you to accompany me, because I want you to understand our enemy better."

"You asked me to come?"

"I convinced her that you were suited for this type of mission. You don't understand dragons as you should, and I can't teach you otherwise until you've experienced one for yourself."

"But I have experienced dragons," the girl protested.

Nurr chuckled grimly. "You've experienced _tame_ dragons. Dragons that held back from their true natures. The ones we fight are real unrestrained killers, those that will look at you and decide you'll make a decent mouthful."

"I still don't fear them," said Raegim.

"Then you ought to."

This bewildered her. "Why? How can it be good to fear your enemy?"

"Because that fear is what's always going to keep you alive. Raegim, to not fear dragons isn't going to develop well. You need to have some level of caution for them, otherwise you'll overestimate yourself, and one day a thought like that could be the end of you. Always, _always_ , you have to remember; even the weakest type of dragon has the potential to kill you."

"Of that there is no doubt," she agreed, "but why must I fear?"

Nurr closed his eyes. _Come on, you can admit to yourself you're getting the knack of this mentoring thing…_ "I'm not asking you to freeze in terror upon the sight of our enemy. I'm asking you to perceive it as a constant threat, an immense danger, that you must never cease to beware. In this way, you will never stop anticipating your opponent. You cannot presume to know everything about the creatures we face. There is always more."

Raegim was quiet as she pondered this. At last she said, "I thought the Blades knew all there was to the art of killing dragons. Your secret came from knowing your enemy better than the enemy knows you."

Nurr chuckled dryly. "They think us phantoms, my girl, that we were killed long ago. But that's what we want them to think. When they realize that we're quite alive, they will fight, and they will learn as we fight. Many of the dragons my predecessors in this era have faced have died once before to the Dragonguard during the first Wars. Death has made their memories long—when the World-Eater opened their graves and returned them to the skies of Tamriel, they remember their old enemies, and once we present ourselves, will never underestimate us. We must assume their way of thinking, and prove all the stronger for it."

"So you can kill them once again."

"Yep, to kill them once again. However, since their rebirth, the dragons have been breeding, so it is not always the ancient souls we find ourselves facing. Sometimes we come across wyrms—the equivalent of an adolescent gaining independence and power—and while I was an initiate, one lair raid revealed a mother ness guarding her dragonling."

Raegim's eyes rounded. "You kill baby dragons?"

Nurr grimaced. _Sounds heartless, doesn't it? Good job, smart one._ "It can't survive without its mother," he said. "It can't fly, it can't hunt, it can't feed or defend itself. It seems cruel to kill a hatchling, despite what it'll grow up to be, but it's even crueler to let it starve or be slaughtered by something else. But dragonling or adult, they remain our enemies, and as Blades we are sworn to the extinction of that race."

"You've told me, these creatures are as sentient as we are," the girl said quietly. "That means their children would be like our children. Killing them is…" She shook her head. "It's without honour."

"We can't always be honourable."

"But it's not right."

 _Brilliant; how do I answer someone who still retains their conscience?_ "The dragons are not right," Nurr answered. "They chose to preside over mortalkind, to oppress the people. I've heard some really horrific stories about what they can do when they're in the right frame of mind." He hadn't heard about Rogghart's past before the night he told it. "They murder our children in cold blood, and have slaughtered millions all in the name of power and conquest. Their hatchlings will grow up under these same values, and as wyrms they will become just as power-hungry as their overlord—like these wyrms that we are tracking right now, young feral dragons launching constant assaults upon Markarth and its people, for a reason we have been sent to try and understand."

Raegim lowered her eyes. "I am prepared to kill," she said, "but I hesitate over killing infants."

Nurr reached down and rested his hand on her plated shoulder. "You're young, still a child. You're familiar with hunting, but preparing your mind to kill something just as intelligent and as clever as you takes much longer. Our initiates prepare themselves for that. Some are fuelled by hatred, others driven by a will to do good—and a few become sensitively perceptive, and never lose sight of what morals they hold dear, even in the face of the most tyrannical enemy mortalkind has ever known. I can see you becoming just that." _Good gods,_ he thought, _I'm teaching myself as much as I am the child._

The girl remained uncertain. "I should know who it is I fight."

"You know," Nurr assured her. "The dragons are your enemy."

"But I feel no cause for them to be." Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the reins. "It is the wolves I find my greatest enemy."

"Wolves," Nurr repeated. _They're what destroyed_ Krentuld _, where she and her brother came from._

"They killed my mother and father," Raegim whispered. "They killed everyone I knew. They came out of the night, headed by a big white beast, and without a sound they began to hunt us all. They smashed through the windows and doors, they tore everyone apart. Agalf and I hid in the cellar when they attacked our house. I listened to our parents fighting. Then they were dying. When it was quiet we came back out. We found our friend Valheim. He'd managed to climb a tree. We didn't know what to do. Everyone was gone. If any of the town lived still, they fled and forgot about us."

"But you were found," Nurr murmured, who found himself listening closely.

"By the Blade," she continued. "He was looking for anyone who'd survived. He found the three of us and asked if we'd like to go with him. We knew our parents were dead, so we didn't have anywhere else to go. He led us south to the Temple." She drew herself up in the saddle and said, "I have reason to fear wolves. Dragons, I don't. I've seen them, but I'm just not afraid. Nurrkha'jay—" She stared at him. "—I don't want to learn to fear them. The thought of wolves holds me still and makes me shake and forget everything my mother ever taught me. My mind remains clear when I think of dragons."

Nurr looked away with a slight sigh. _This is going to be harder than I thought._ "You can't perceive them properly so long as you haven't seen what they're capable of doing," he said. "They're always going to be creatures of the world to you—you won't see them with the eyes of a Blade, as villains and enemies. You must learn to fear the enemy, Raegim; if not for yourself, for those around you."

"Fear weakens you," the girl murmured.

"Only if you let it. Channel it into something else. Caution. Attention. Anticipation. When you fear the opponent, you'll always be on your guard. Your body will respond better. It will try its hardest not to be taken by surprise. You'll become hyper-aware as your every sense determines to keep you alive. Adrenalin will give you energy, stay you on your feet, dull the immediate pain of any wounds sustained. Fear will fill with the urge to survive—and some pretty remarkable things can be accomplished while you're suspended in this state of being."

Raegim's eyes rounded. "All this from fear?"

"Fear, when you don't let it overwhelm you, but guide you."

"So you fear, every time you fight dragons?"

"I used to, that raw, fierce dread that fills every inch of your soul, the kind of fear that more than once nearly overtook my senses in my youth." The first encounter was always the one greeted with the most expectation; Nurr remembered it well. "But over time, as my skills enhanced and my confidence swelled, my fear evolved beyond what it used to be; it's no longer an animal instinct, but something I wear, like a piece of armour. That changes you." His voice hushed a little. "It becomes a real part of your soul, until you forget what it was like before. The killing and death turn into normality. Fear and tranquility become one and the same. You teach yourself to expect everything and nothing all at once. Emilyn names this state of being 'transcendence'—who we were, to who we are, to who we'll always be."

"So that's who you are, then," said Raegim, in a hushed voice. "Transcended?"

Nurr nodded. "The curse of the slayer; the more you kill, the more it grows on you." He smiled suddenly at the memories that came upon him. "I used to feel this real excitement, this amazing sense of accomplishment when I killed the dragon. How many could put such a foe down with only one strike? But something done enough times loses its thrill—and something so spiritually damaging as killing, constantly taking life, inspires that change to your soul, and one you cannot undo. The dragons are dangerous, they're creatures that endanger the world and every innocent mortal life, and each one we kill lessens that threat…but at what cost to the slayer? The satisfaction gained from each success wanes. It seems remarkably unfair to those who haven't yet understood this sensation, but we aren't meant to enjoy what we do. Only the heartless and the cruel could think of celebrating death."

He spoke with earnestness that surprised even himself.

The girl was enlightened; her eyes were glowing like stars. "How do you cope with it?" she whispered, sounding nervous.

Nurr snorted. "Not through the most heroic effort; I drink. Drown my sorrows, dull the pain, cloud my thoughts so I can't see where they turn to in my time of idle solitude. It's a release, the alcohol. I feel like I get the little bit of me back that I started losing when I entered the crusade as a slayer."

"So that's why you drink so much," Raegim observed.

"It's not my only excuse." Nurr grinned a little. "I have grown fond of ale."

The smallest of smiles touched her lips, but it was swift to disappear. "Is that why I'm coming, then?" she asked. "To ever transcend, I must first learn to fear what I do not."

"I want you to get an idea of our enemy without restraint. Words do not so easily impress upon the unknowing of a dragon's capabilities."

"They have the Voice," said Raegim, "the ability to command the elements of the world."

"Their greatest weapon—but they have their bodies too, and they know exactly how to use them. Sometimes you forget which one's the more dangerous. Even the most experienced slayer can be caught out." He rolled his shoulder in memory of such a time.

"Are wyrms dangerous?" the girl asked.

"When they want to be. Their Voices aren't as well-developed as their seniors, but young dragons can still be deadly, particularly in numbers. Wyrms are quite rare, however; dragons aren't rampant breeders, and during the first Dragon Wars, there were no reports of eggs, dragonlings or wyrms whatsoever. They just…were."

Raegim's brow furrowed. "Yet it's different this time."

"Apparently," Nurr shrugged. "Perhaps it was something to do with their resurrection—all the more woe for us. A few decades after the Fifth Era began, there came sightings of presumed mated pairs, which proved true enough, as wyrms began to take to the air shortly after. There's still quite a lot we don't know about dragons raising a new generation of their ilk. Archivist Rendal welcomes any opportunity to gain new wisdom of our enemy."

"How do the acolytes learn?" Raegim glanced at Auril, clinging rather miserably to the saddle. "I don't think they leave the Temple much."

"They rarely do," Nurr replied. "Their duties keep them within Sky Haven."

"What duties?"

He shrugged. "I don't know—processing old documents or furthering their knowledge, something like that. I'm not an acolyte."

"So they don't know how to fight?"

"Every initiate undergoes three years' minimum of training in both fields, in the arena with Jor or in the library with Rendal. After those years, the initiates divide, of a sort; some are prenticed to various Blades who further develop their weapon of choice, others become Rendal's acolytes. It's usually made apparent during those first three years if someone's bookish or battle-born."

"But my brother and I are different," said Raegim. "We were prenticed."

"You had the appropriate ability of one," Nurr told her. "Early apprenticeships are uncommon but not unheard of in the Order. If you already have the talent, why suppress it? But we don't only take in children. Adults have come to us as well, said their vows before the Grandmaster, though they're rarer cases. Besides, Emilyn's been hounding me about getting an apprentice for years. Thought it'd be good for me."

Raegim tilted her head. "And was she right?"

Nurr frowned. "You know I can't tell if you're joking or not. You're too serious."

"There's little to jest over."

"That's where you're wrong—Lio, more often than not, always has a smart thing to say about me. Rogghart, that massive Orc you've probably noticed a lot in the arenas, never fails to find something to grin at. There's also a lot of entertaining gossip going on about him and Banviel these days. And after every successful lair raid, the Blades throw a party." He closed his eyes and groaned. "Hate those."

"Parties?" Raegim seemed incredulous.

"I know, they're stupid," Nurr muttered, "but everyone has them. I don't enjoy the celebrations. They mean well, but it always feels like they're just celebrating the death of the dragon. Okay, that's an accomplishment, I grant, but it's hardly the way I'd look at it."

"Are they transcended?"

He looked skyward. "Honestly, it's hard to tell when even you have. One day you just wake up and realize what you've become, and you can't go back from that. In any case, before or after, I've never really been a people person. Ask Lio anytime. I'd find any excuse to disappear from a social gathering."

For a little while, Raegim was rather quiet—probably digesting the whole lot of lore he'd dumped on her. She seemed adept at absorbing information, though, which was probably why Nurr found it uncharacteristically hard to clam up. He was growing awfully fond of his apprentice. _No doubt Emilyn's intention all along,_ he thought with a wry smirk. _Still, can't say I blame her. I'm rather glad to have someone to nurture my legacy one day._

It was after they'd crossed another swollen river—the Karth they'd left behind quite a while back—when Raegim spoke again. "What about Slag?"

"Eh?" said Nurr intelligently.

"He's not an acolyte or a warrior," the girl said, clinging tightly to her saddle as her garron nimbly bounded up to higher ground (less gracefully, Nurr and his more ungainly horse followed). "He's the apprentice smith."

"One in a hundred," Nurr dismissed. "Slag wasn't bookish and never displayed any kind of affinity with weapons. He came from the stables in Markarth; not a proud beginning. He didn't know his letters and he'd never held anything more dangerous than a pitchfork in his life. However, Slag had other talents. His aptitude for warping metal was discovered, not to mention he'd always been the best of all of us, even the seniors, with our handful of nags."

Raegim leaned forward and patted her pony's hairy neck. "This is Slag's favourite," she said. "He calls him Goat, because he's a good rock-hopper."

"Goat?" Nurr echoed, with a glance at the rather scruffy animal. "The kid's naming them now?"

"He has names for all the horses," she replied. "Yours is Banger."

Nurr viewed his horse rather differently than before. "Why?"

"Slag says he bangs everything. He kicks the walls of his stall and bumps into the other horses. He has no idea why. But he's perfectly fine when he's outside, which is why none of the other Blades has really noticed his weird behaviour. Maybe it's claustrophobia."

"And now you're a horse expert," Nurr rasped.

"His suggestion," Raegim defended. "Anyway, I don't always like his names. Goat doesn't suit the pony." She gave her garron a thoughtful look. "Robin is better," she decided. "Slag said I could name him if I wanted to, so I'll call him Robin."

Nurr snorted. _That's even stranger than Goat—a horse called a bird._ "Why call him that?"

"I like robins," she said. "I often saw them while I hunted. And they're nimble birds, quick and agile. Why wouldn't I call him that?"

Nurr surrendered. "Call him whatever you won't, you'll outgrow him soon enough."

Raegim seemed briefly saddened at this thought. She leaned forward and carefully scratched behind the pony's ear. "How far is it to the city we're going to?" she wondered. "I've never been to a city before."

"We're not going into the city itself." _Gods forbid, Blades in full armour among such a population as a city's worth…_ "The dragons don't live in it, they'll be found somewhere around it. Falen knows the terrain best of all of us, so he'll have a sense, at least, where they might be hiding around these highlands. The city's a day's ride at best from Haven, and if all goes well, it'll be dark by the time we're in sight of its outer walls."

"At best?"

"Travel's precarious through the highlands at the best of times." Nurr gave Raegim a sweeping look. "You're riding much better now."

She seemed pleased with herself. "You're right, Nurrkha'jay, there really isn't that much to it."

Nurr shook his head, amused at her constant formality. "You're just like Emilyn, you know, calling everyone by their fullest names. The others always found mine a bit of a mouthful, so I'm called by variants of it."

"It's the first Khajiit name I've ever known," said Raegim. "I like the way it sounds. What does it mean?"

"I thought the others would've given it away. They don't just call me 'Moony' for nothing."

The conclusion came to her. "It means the moons, then? Masser and Secunda."

"Not quite. _Kha'jay_ is Ta'agra for _moon_ , but _nurr_ means _dark_."

"Nurrkha'jay…then your name means Dark Moon?"

"Pretty much."

"That's a strange name."

"There's a story behind it, but I'll have to educate you a little on my people's lore."

Raegim shrugged. "It's only been a few hours since we left. I'm sure there'll be time enough."

Nurr adjusted his position in the saddle, already stiff and rather wishing he could get off the blasted animal. "The Khajiit are a people in a people," he said. "We are bound to the _ja'kha'jay_ , the Lunar Lattice, and so the forms of the moon dictate what kind of Khajiit we will become. There are sixteen types of Khajiit, though half are the _–raht_ , the larger variant of their smaller cousins. All are bound to the _ja'kha'jay_ , and when they are born, all are affected by the shapes the moons take. I myself am _Suthay-raht_ , one of the bipedal Khajiiti races—and at the moment of my birth, _Jode_ , the Big Moon God, was dark, and _Jone_ , the Little Moon God, was only half there."

" _Jode_ and _Jone_ are what your people call Masser and Secunda?"

Nurr nodded. "So I was named appropriately, Dark Moon. I'm still not sure whether it refers to Masser's dark absence or Secunda's shadowed presence."

Not long after the sun climbed to its height, the Blades halted to water their horses, and Falen went to scout the path ahead on foot. Nurr, very glad for the chance to stretch his legs, found Kierra sharpening her swords beside the stream. "Where's Auril?" he asked.

Kierra didn't look up. "Answering a call he can't refuse." She sighed. "I know the man's a genius, but couldn't Rendal have sent someone a little more…well, more?"

"Everyone has their flaws," said Nurr dryly. "The ones who don't are saints." He sat down on a mossy stone beside her.

Kierra met his gaze, wearing a small smile. "Heard you and the little girl cosying up throughout the ride. Sweet little thing, isn't she? You get remarkably talkative around her, more even than with Lio. That's a feat."

Nurr rolled his eyes. "She's my apprentice. Of course I have to talk to her."

"But it's not just archery tips you talk about, is it?" Kierra brandished her shortsword, its sleek edges catching the silvery shafts of sun. "I learned more about you today in the fourteen years we've known each other." She looked past him to where Raegim stood, watering her pony alongside Marcel and his horse. "The two make a sweet pair, don't you think?"

Nurr curled his lip. "The boy's eight years older and eight years more stupid."

"So Marcel isn't your definition of a dragonslayer—Jor saw something in him, and Jor is Jor. Try arguing with him."

"I have. A lot." Nurr pressed thumb and forefinger into his temple. "The boy isn't a fighter. He was better suited to the library from the start."

"Still, Jor took him on, and he's never complained," Kierra reminded him. "I remember when Marcel first came to us nine years ago—a stick-thin, timid little lad, not even ten. He was very jumpy—do you remember? The other initiates called him Grasshopper."

Nurr's whiskers twitched. "Aye, I remember."

"Everyone doubted him," said Kierra quietly. "I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Only Jor, though. That man doubts everyone, but Marcel…was something else to him. He was tough on the kid but he never gave up on him."

Nurr sighed and raised both eyebrows. "Yep. Jor grew even crabbier when they suggested he pass the boy into Rendal's keeping. No, the kid stayed with him, that was what he insisted. Emilyn didn't argue, but she's always had too much respect for him."

"I have too much respect for him," Kierra admitted, as she set to sharpening her other shortsword. "He's a stubborn arse and a damned pain, but I swear his crabbiness keeps the burns in check better than that foul stuff he's always drinking to control it. Who else could survive what he did?"

She had a point. _Hit with the brunt of a dragon's fire Shout, minus his arm, leg, and good looks, and that profoundly intolerable son of a bitch is still trudging on eighteen years later._ Nurr could almost forgive the crabby old Nord in that moment. "Jor's mighty apprentice," he mused, as Marcel took a step and skidded on the slippery shore stones. "Eleven months bladed, yet to kill his first dragon, and I've still heard the others calling him Farcel."

"The first year's the hardest for a new bladed," said Kierra, "and it's our own fault." She grinned. "The secondary ritual Jor's still not too happy about."

"Were the old Blades too hard on him?" Nurr wondered. "I asked Gelwin once, did you know? Though he assured me that Vaena was the worst with new bladed, I don't think I ever quite believed him. They were Knights by the time Jor was bladed—I know, _ancient_ —and my gods, they were cruel."

Kierra chuckled. "You'd be amazed at what our Banvi can do when she's motivated."

"Father's daughter," Nurr smiled, but thinking of Banviel, his mirth waned a little. First she was dancing above Lotjoorkriid's head, and then she was dangling…

It was at that moment Auril stumbled back into the vicinity, looking even more nervous than before. "Nurrkha'jay," he muttered, "can you hear dragons?"

Nurr glanced at him. "Dumb thing to ask. You always hear dragons these days."

"Is one _close?_ " Auril anxiously knotted his hands. "I heard one while I…nevermind. It sounded particularly louder than I imagine most hunting cries to sound like—"

"Shut up, then," Nurr ordered. The acolyte did so. In the sudden silence, it was much easier to concentrate on the rebounding echoes of the rumbling calls. He allowed a minute to himself, then sighed and said, "Trust me, we'd know if they'd seen us."

"But what if they're following us?" Auril whispered. "It's nowhere near as murky as I'd like it to be—"

"Pipe down, Auril," said Kierra shortly. "Nurr's been doing this a good deal longer than the rest of us."

The overanxious acolyte couldn't argue with that. Muttering about nightmares coming true, he hastened back to his horse. Nurr watched him go with a wearied expression. "That's the man who's going to serve our every purpose for leaving the Temple at all."

"I know, it's hardly magnificent," the Redguard groaned, "but what can we do? When it comes to speaking dragon, there's no-one better."

Falen, fortunately, returned ten minutes later proclaiming he'd found safe passage. Everyone mounted up at this revelation and resumed the journey, in different formation; while the Bosmer scout still headed the company, Nurr was put second, Auril between him and Kierra. Raegim and Marcel brought up the rear, now riding together. Despite himself, Nurr had to agree with his Knight Sister; the two got along well together.

So the afternoon slipped by. It proved quite quiet right until sunset—that was when Nurr realized the dragonsong had suddenly swelled in volume, and on the fringe of his hearing thrummed the whirring of leathery wings.

"They're coming this way," he said.

Falen's eyes widened. "How long?"

"Ten seconds, maybe twelve. Hide?"

"No time. Blend."

Nurr responded at once. He swung down, whipped his cloak around, and threw it over his horse's head. " _Down_ ," he growled into its ear, and obediently it folded its legs and pressed its belly to the rough soil. _Raegim,_ he thought suddenly, and for a breathless instant he knew fear again—real fear for the girl. He started towards the rear of the van, but he needn't have fretted; the garron was down, Raegim holding its head covered by her cloak. Marcel was beside her, hastily throwing his cloak over his mount's eyes.

She glanced at Nurr, and though there was uncertainty in her gaze, she was calm. Satisfied for the moment, Nurr checked everyone else; Kierra was aiding Auril, grandly serene despite the fact the acolyte was the one who really needed the shroud over his sight, and Falen was already kneeling at his steed's front in the blending position; hood drawn, head bowed, folds of his cloak depriving his horse's vision to prevent them from starting. The wingbeats were growing very loud. Nurr knelt beside his horse—Banger, he recounted in an absurd suddenness—and raised his cowl over his ears.

For a few precious seconds, they waited in breathless silence.

The peace exploded into a cacophony of shrieks, and icy shadows swept over them. Nurr was battered by the wind from their powerful wings, felt Banger jolt in terror, his terrified nicker barely heard. Nurr glanced cautiously at the sky and saw them; the wyrms they'd surely been sent to find. Five young dragons, only they appeared to be squabbling about something, fighting with tooth and claw over some debate incomprehensible to him. In a moment more, they vanished over the cliffs, and the storm of wings at last faded into inaudibility.

Nurr gave the signal it was now safe by being the first to break out of the veiling position. He whipped his cloak back around and stood his horse. The rest of the group followed. "That was eventful," Falen muttered, sighing in the dragons' wake. "Thank the gods for your ears, Nurr."

"Save it." Nurr turned down the line. "Raegim?"

"I'm all right." She was patting the pony, looking rather exhilarated. "Marcel showed me what I needed to do."

"You did really well," said Marcel, sounding madly proud of himself.

 _Okay, so maybe he's not entirely useless._ Nurr glowered after the wyrms. "Falen, it's nearly nightfall, and those horrors were shockingly low to the ground. Those cliffs they passed over, is there anything remotely like a lair in that vicinity?"

"I know of a few locations," the Bosmer answered, mounting. "But they're scattered in a wide radius. I can't see in the dark like you, and the light's fading fast."

Nurr vaulted himself back into the saddle. "So we'd better move faster."

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: So while writing this chapter I realized Nurr was talking me into the many races of the Khajiit, and I thought that the Suthay-Raht were the breed you played in Skyrim, so he became that, and I was happy because the story behind his name actually fit with his kind. Then I did some further digging and WHOOPS, you play Suthay-Raht in MORROWIND, not Skyrim. It's Cathay in the north...both Masser and Secunda are darkened on the Cathay's night of birth, but I'd developed a fondness for the 'still not sure whether it refers to Masser's dark absence or Secunda's shadowed presence' line, which I really didn't want to change and would have to if I made Nurr a Cathay.**

 **So Nurr is a Suthay-Raht, and why it was an issue at all was the matter of the feet. Suthay-Raht walk on their toes and in Morrowind you couldn't put shoes on them. Does Nurr wear boots? He does indeed, because Nurr is an exception to many rules. Let's just assume he has special boots.**

 **I think at this point my mind has adapted to Nurr with those comically long feet. However, it refuses to accept him waddling like his Vvardenfell kin. Ehh...maybe when he's drunk.**


	35. XXXIV - Blood and Fire

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

The dawn air was brisk upon Chase's pelt, made even brisker as she bounded from her hunting grounds, descending in a haze of scarlet fur and shocked exclamations into the camp.

" _Amos!_ " she barked, already commencing the change, though she lingered in her favoured skin just long enough to snap and snarl at the few pale-faced bandits braving a look at their unholy chieftain. Her voice was rough and hoarse as her tongue slipped from one language to another. She clambered to the level where her quarters were located, and reared as her claws shrank and dulled, hard pads morphed into soft soles and palms, and her jaws squared away and lost their fangs. " _Find me Amos!_ " she bellowed, and ducked inside swiftly, muttering oaths about the stupidity of clothes.

She was donned in attire and decent when she finally caught the Redguard's fresh scent in the air. Chase emerged into the strengthening daylight and glowered at the sight of him. It was not pleasant, and for the moment her thoughts turned. "I ordered you," she snarled, "to handle the patrol."

Amos was resentful, openly, but he was careful enough not to demonstrate that in his words. Grunting as he shifted from one leg to the other—blood wept freely from a festering gash on his hip—he muttered, "They outnumbered us three to one."

Chase curled her lip. "You've fought a dragon," she snapped, "and when you are presented with a cadre of dragon _men_ , I find you like this, covered in your own blood."

"They were trained."

"Are you not?" Chase was disgusted. "The excuses you bring me sour my appetite worse than fetid flesh."

Amos's eyes flashed with fury, but he spoke still in frigid courtesy. "There were seventeen of us," he said bitterly, "against fifty. _Seventeen_ , Chase." He emphasized this, to remind her of what she had not forgotten—that she had been the sole reason for the deaths of the rest of the clan that once had numbered half a hundred and more.

She smiled to this. _They were so easy. Only Gramu posed a threat, and his meat tasted sweeter than any other mortal man I've had the delight to sate myself upon._ "So what is the soul of your complaint?" she demanded, and her bad temper returned. "Do you wish I had been there, to even the odds and ensure a victory?"

"We had victory," said Amos stiffly. "We killed them, down to the last green grunt. In the conflict, we lost six."

Chase swore. "You should be ashamed," she spat, "that you are as dependent on my presence in your foul fights as you are to the weapons that do the killing for you. Six of the clan killed this night? There is not a death more embarrassing to the world of the hunt than for the hunter to be killed by his prey."

Amos's face tightened. He was growing angrier. "We are not _hunters_ ," he said coolly, "we are _bandits_ and _warriors_. We don't skulk about in the darkness, killing from behind, but have the nerve to face our enemy head-on."

She laughed at his words. "I slaughtered every traitor with my face before his," she exclaimed.

"There was only one traitor that failed to die in the uprising," Amos muttered.

Chase grinned. "You are mistaken, Amos," she said. "She did die, and quickly. She was a sweet feast indeed, our Estilde."

He turned away, and for a moment she wondered if he was to be sick. _How their stomachs roil at the carnage I made of those they once counted friend and fellow. It is less than they deserve for ever betraying me._ Chase curled her lip. _If this were the pack, traitors wouldn't even be given the peace of a quick death, but a long and lonely life of exile, where they are certain to fail and die to a doom unknown to them._

But humans were rather different—traitors were executed before one and all the rest, to serve as an example to any that considered following in their footsteps. That was what Gramu had done, and because she was not alpha of a pack, but a chieftain over a ragged clan, she sensed it was proper to continue this idea. She'd demonstrated it magnificently when she discovered three cowards had disappeared from the camp, leaving behind the stench of fear and furtiveness. Rather than fight, they had fled, and the loyalty owed to her was deprived. Of course Chase would not let the prey escape her. She'd given them three hours, one for each craven, before pursuing them. In less than one, she'd found them, dragged them back to the camp, and slaughtered them before the remainder of the clan to serve as their necessary example of the fate that awaited any who acted without her consent.

It had served well—fresh terror had been sown among the rabble, her dominance asserted without question…though there was nothing she could do about the resentment that hang thick in the air, or the stares full of hate that followed her as she passed them by. Fear and hate was her legacy here, but what did it matter?

 _It is plain I have failed my alpha's wishes,_ Chase frowned. _I cannot find harmony at all between woman and wolf—stubbornly, I refused to seek out a better path for myself, or was it simply because my nature is as wolven as my soul? I cannot be like these humans. I am far from like them. A hunter among hunters cannot learn to live among the prey._

But nor could she return, until she had repaid Shirju in another way.

"So why did you call me here in such suddenness?" Amos demanded.

Chase snapped from her reverie, and smiled. Almost at once, his countenance darkened. "Don't tell me it's to do with that bloody egg."

"I couldn't figure it out at first." Chase withdrew into her sheltered quarters, and Amos heavily followed her. "But while hunting tonight, to clear my head, I had an epiphany—we found the egg entombed in ice."

Amos shuddered at the memory. "You still want to hatch it."

"Of course." Chase carefully withdrew the egg from where she'd hidden it during her hunt—now that Amos had seen it, she'd have to store it someplace else, for she still nursed a dire suspicion that the clan would seek to rid her of the bloody, hard-won prize if given an opportunity. She brandished it before him and snarled, "The mother breathed both fire and ice—and this, we found in ice. So it occurred to me—ice kept it asleep, plainly, so will fire not awaken it?"

She was madly pleased with herself for solving the riddle, for she was certain it was the answer. Never had she felt surer of anything than this.

Amos regarded the large blue oval with deep distaste. "So what now?"

Chase grimaced. _Two elements in all this world may truly harm a wolf…_ "Now, I want you to do something for me."

She led him back outside, to the little scrap of grass outside the tent where a fire pit smouldered. The morning light was strengthening, the grass soft and damp with dew, prickling delightfully against her bare soles. It was cool, so Chase was almost glad at the idea of a blaze, though the thought of the flames made her hairs stand on end, and unease sent shivers through her bones. Instinctively she recoiled the moment she caught a glimpse of a blinking ember. _Battle is different,_ she frowned. _There is only the lust that drives you, that banishes all sense and consciousness, and the urge takes precedence._

"Get it going," she ordered sharply.

Amos's dark face was even darker, but he complied without voiced protest. Chase stood back, holding the egg between fingers quivering with excitement, as she watched the bandit stir the embers into a blaze. Kindling was devoured with growing speed, until he was throwing small logs onto the reviving fire. "Larger," she demanded. "It must be hot."

The blaze grew, and smoke rose slowly into the air, twining leisurely in the zephyrs sweeping above. Amos soon was shielding his eyes against the prominent auburn glare. Log after log was stacked into the core of the fire until its flames leapt up to his chin when he stood. His ancestors might walk the boiling deserts and brave the scouring sands, but he still retreated from the inferno with sweat dotting his brown skin.

Chase studied the dancing flames, suddenly hesitant. Her certainty waned a little, and she wondered if this surge of impulsiveness would only lead to folly again. Yes, she'd been wrong before…but dragons were creatures of fire, weren't they? _In fire they're born,_ she thought, though that was only what the stories claimed. _I thought it might be of the frost or ice species, but…I can't see one of those breathing flames of their own._

 _In ice it slept, in fire it will awake._ She ran her palms over its ridged shell and sighed. _I must believe this. This is the riddle, I think. I hope._

She advanced towards the fire, and the heat swiftly banished the morning's chill from her blood. Soon she was panting, wincing at the harsh glare of the flames, gagging in the smoke. How swift it was to cloud all her senses. She whimpered, too faintly for Amos to hear, as her every instinct cringed and urged her to do the same. _This must be done,_ Chase thought firmly, and just she knew she could not advance to the flames any more, she threw the egg upon the flaming logs and retreated.

It had pulsed between her hands before; the dragon's little heartbeat throbbing with determined life, echoing through its confining shells. Now she felt nothing, but she saw the egg in the flames, its dark silhouette shimmering with the heat.

The shell seemed to glow, its ridged whorls starker than ever, and Chase saw the shadow of the hatchling coiled on itself, faintly red. The egg stirred, and excitement rushed through her, hotter than the flames. Was it hatching?

The egg trembled. The unborn creature seemed hardly to move, but the egg itself was quivering, but not in a way Chase had imagined. It shook feverishly, and quite abruptly, she wondered if she was wrong; if she was killing the hatchling, not awakening it. Her ears, above the roaring of the flames, seemed to detect a hideous, thin, faint sound too shrill to belong to any flame…

"Get it out," she said sharply.

"What?"

"Get it out, now!" Chase roared. "Now, do it!"

Amos did not move quickly enough; she seized him and flung him towards the fire, and he barely saved himself from toppling into the inferno. He stumbled with a shocked gasp, and Chase bellowed, "Remove the egg!"

Now he obeyed; trembling from his brush with death, Amos tugged his warhammer from its sheath and warily pushed its blunted head into the flames. At once he swore and nearly dropped the weapon, hastily knocking the quivering egg from the furnace. It tumbled from the charred logs and rolled free of the flames, halting upon the dew-dropped grass in a small cloud of steam.

Chase converged on it at once, dropping to her knees. The wailing had stopped, though she wondered if she'd even heard a sound at all. The egg wasn't moving, either. Steam rose peacefully on either side of the glistening shell, which appeared unmarked. Cautiously, she lowered her hand over, then upon the shell. It was cool. The thing was unblemished from the heart of the fire.

And life still echoed from within. She smiled in relief.

 _I fretted before. We must try again._

"What in Oblivion was all that about?" Amos snapped, dropping his steaming hammer with a curse. His palms were blistering—the whole metal weapon thrummed with the fire's scalding heat. "You toss it in, then have me pull the bloody thing out."

"It didn't hatch," Chase mused thoughtfully.

"And thank the Divines it didn't!" Amos shouted. "That thing's been nothing but trouble and death. You should have just let it burn!"

At once Chase stood and her eyes were level with his, and a good deal angrier. He quailed.

"Maybe," she growled, "I should have burnt you instead."

Amos swallowed. Did he realize just now how vulnerable he was, without his weapon too hot to hold in paining hands? "Chase, please," he said at last, almost desperately. "You can't hatch the egg. It's bad luck, I swear. I know I'm right. You murdered Gramu over it. Half the clan died because you wouldn't surrender it. You killed its mother. What happens when other dragons discover that mere mortals have taken possession of their offspring? They'll raze us for our impertinence."

Chase slapped him. As he reeled from the stunning strike, she hissed, "Let them come—the egg is mine."

She seized it again, amazed at how unperturbed it had been to the fire. "It was no murder. We fought for it, face to face." There were permanent imperfections set into the skin of her palms, a memory of how dismayed she'd been by the Warglutton's silver skin. "The clan chose to rebel against my leadership, won from Gramu in blood and contest as it was meant to be," she continued softly, "and so I killed them for their profound lack of loyalty. And the dragoness made for an excellent fight. She was worthy prey indeed." _I wonder if my goddess mother watched over that hunt. How proud she must be, that I vanquished in her name a_ krag-nalihr _. If she ever graces me again with her blessed presence, I must know how she found that offering._

Amos dropped his eyes.

"You'll die over it, too," he predicted.

Chase seized his collar and spat, "You threaten me?"

"You will," he murmured, and wrestled free of her grasp. "You waste away in front of it. It's a poisonous treasure. It's consumed you. It took hold of Gramu and it's taken you, and both of you were left all the more senseless for it. You've changed, and for the worse, and you've weakened yourself and us. Look at the ruin you and your stupid antics have left us in!" He gestured furiously about them, indicating the camp that stretched in a ragged jumble beyond them. "We once were a magnificent force, a dread to be reckoned with by travellers that dared to use this road between two cities of Skyrim—and now we are a shell, and dying, either by your hand or the enemy that day by day we learn to fear. You have robbed us, Chase, of our strength and number. Soon we won't even be able to defend ourselves, and then what will you do?"

Chase chuckled. "Poor Amos," she whispered. "This clan is all you have, isn't it? There's nowhere else for you after this."

Amos tightened his jaw. "That's it, then," he spat. "We're all goddamned expendable to you. Sacrifices in the name of the greater good—and that good is one we don't support. You and your…your bloody pack of rabid dogs, who style themselves the kings of the earth!"

Anger raged through her; she advanced, and he retreated, and ducked for his warhammer; she was faster. She seized the ungainly weapon and, despite the flush of heat that seared her hand, flung it into the inferno he'd created for her.

Amos shouted in horror, but it was too late; the weapon lay in the heart of the flames, and there was no reaching it but to join it. The metal soon turned red and hot.

"Be glad," Chase whispered, "I didn't throw you on the logs instead."

Amos turned to her, shaking with fury. "You—"

"Slander me or my people again," Chase said softly, "and you will pay for it."

The warning was plain in her words. Amos heard it, and registered it. Was he remembering how easily she'd butchered Estilde? Finally he lowered his head and stalked away, his scalded hands balled into shaking fists.

Chase watched coldly his departure, then looked down at the egg. Frustration clogged the back of her throat, and for a moment she nearly let Amos's words get to her. She turned to the flames and, in a surge of impatient fury, lifted her prize above her head to have it join the warhammer, if not for a sudden disturbance she detected from deeper within the camp.

Intrigued, Chase pressed the egg against her chest, and listened with growing interest. Hasty footsteps, jeering, banging of weapons…the bandits were livelier than she'd known in weeks, speaking and jesting in their guttural way as they'd done long before the raid on the dragon's lair. She considered storing the egg in a secure location, but that might take some time, given how Amos had witnessed her removing it from its previous hiding spot—so, as she'd done to confront Estilde, she tucked the thing under her left arm, and unhurriedly sought out the source of the commotion.

And in the centre of the camp, she saw it; the remainder of the clan had gathered, enthusiastically tormenting what appeared to be someone they hadn't immediately killed. Perhaps it was a dragonman who'd survived their earlier attack. Chase calmly made her presence known and they recoiled at once, some of their exhilaration dwindling a little. They moved back just enough for her to witness this hapless soul presented before her, wrists bound and head forced low. He was thrown on his knees, where he fell with a heavy, strained gasp.

 _He sounds wounded,_ Chase thought, as he respired with unnatural heaviness.

"What is this?" she asked, studying the captive. He was clad in the travelstained raiment of a mage, it appeared, and his scent was most interesting to her, quite ashen, yet his flesh reeked most peculiarly, as though it were undecided. His hood was drawn up, his countenance veiled in its tattered tan folds.

A bandit answered simply: "Found the rat skulking about the cliffs. Lookin' for us, he was. Says 'e wants to talk t'you."

"Really?" said Chase, and spoke directly to the stranger forced to grovel before her. "And what enlightening conversation might you make with me?"

She sensed Amos was not far, though she did not turn her eyes from the mage—that was what she presumed, at least, for he had the reek of magic all about him.

Silence spanned for a heartbeat or two, in which the man regained control of his breath. Then, in a low rasp, he answered, "I want to join you."

The bandits laughed, and poked further jests at him. "What a wretch!" exclaimed another marauder, who stood behind the captured traveller. "He didn't even try to put up a fight when we got him. No, the only thing he'd be good for is for target practice!" His companions howled, and inspired, the new tormentor gave the fellow a sharp kick in his ribs—who buckled with a breathless cry, clutching frantically at his side. This only furthered the clan's amusement.

Chase smirked at the sight. _How easily aggravated this one is._ She strode forward a few paces until her shadow fell over his trembling form. "Do you know who I am?" she inquired wryly.

It took him a moment to respond, but there seemed almost a smile in his voice. "You're the leader of this…assemblage of brigands." His awareness focused intently on the egg. "Clearly."

Chase frowned, immediately cautious. _He knew I had it…so that was why he came._ Her mirth vanished, and hostility stirred in her. She did not trust him to be anywhere near the dragon egg, and she was quickly tiring of this event. More important matters called. "You must also know, then," she continued frostily, "that we do not take prisoners."

The clan forgot their fear to their bloodthirsty enthusiasm. Weapons rasped, snickers thrummed through the waiting audience. The captive's hood twisted right and left, but still he kept his identity veiled. Chase snorted. _What does he have to hide?_

It was Amos who spoke as the din quietened, from among the audience. "We need a mage."

Chase snorted derisively. "We can do much better than this weakling scrap," she said, and was satisfied to hear her clan agree. No resentment brooded presently in their hearts, only anticipation for what was next to come; it seemed she could unite the mistrustful, fearful, even those who had the nerve to be disgusted with her, with the promise of blood. It seemed there was another way to guide and influence these fools.

"You'll be glad to know," she continued, delighted, "that I fed quite well during my hunt, and this one is hardly worth a mouthful. Do what you like with him."

They were pleased at her declaration—all but one.

"Wait!" called Amos, as though he were determined to undermine her. "He may yet be useful to us."

Chase swore at him. _He'll prove to be as troublesome as Estilde, no doubt._

"Oh, he'll be useful," came a sneered response. "I need a new sheath for my daggers."

"His skills," Amos insisted. "He's a mage, can't you tell? He's a magic user, of which we're rather lacking."

This killed some of the excitement; brooding stares were exchanged, and a few black looks were sent Chase's way. She bristled, and turned angrily on Amos. _It seems my authority is yet to make itself known in his damned skull._ "Remind me," she spat, "who is chieftain here? Whose word, according to this clan's belief, is law?" She glowered at the rest of the bandits, who regarded her more mutinously than fearfully. Once more, unrest was in them all—and Amos was responsible. "I've given you a privilege," she growled, "and one that I can easily take away. I always have room for a snack."

And quite unexpectedly, the robed man chuckled.

"I believe I can offer you much more," he whispered.

His head moved, and Chase felt rapt attention lock on the egg. His heartbeat had quickened. She guessed his intention, and curled her lip. "And what is this supposed offering, beyond the tasteful pleasure of a feast of your flesh and bones?" she inquired.

He looked up, and from his shadowed face, his eyes glowed like embers.

"Fire," he smiled.

And then there was nothing but.

Chase howled, for there was heat, searing her, driving her back. She recoiled and stumbled back on herself, and the egg was lost from her clutches, and the world had turned shockingly orange. The mage stood with fire streaming in rivers from his outstretched fingers, and all those around him were retreating, or trying, and failing—all became ash, _all_ of them, and Chase only watched and could do nothing. Three were consumed in a single blast, turned to cinders in the blink of an eye, while another was torn in two from a fireball that hurtled through his midsection and filled the smoky, boiling air with the pungent stench of burning flesh. Amos was lost in a haze of flame right from the beginning, and there was no corpse left of him. All the rest were screaming.

No, there was only the blaze, and pain, and fear that was her own.

This was no enemy she could fight; he was cloaked in that murderous element, and advancing on her. She turned for the egg, and saw nothing but flames left and right of her, preparing to devour her like some terrible beast. Utterly afraid, she scrabbled backwards, on hands and feet that morphed swiftly into clawed paws, and her limbs bent and lengthened in a surge of adrenalin that further sped her change. She turned. Fire licked at her heels, and she fled from its deadly embrace, blind with animal terror that drove her away, out of the doomed and burning encampment, into daylight and the wilderness. Heat washed over her in an explosion from behind, crashing with such force that the very earth under her betrayed her, and she lost her footing and plunged into the river below.

It was swift to grasp her, to carry her away in a relentless current. She found her way to the surface in time to hear the last howls of men fade into silence, and to watch the smoke thicken, and the inferno grow greater and greater, utterly engulfing the camp as the stranger had his revenge and scorched the clan to dust.

Chase did not mourn the loss of her prize, for it had betrayed her. She'd been wrong. It was never to bring her salvation, only everything that such a treacherous artifact had ever promised; blood, and death, and fire.

 **d|b**


	36. XXXV - The Request

**[A/N]: Well. So I wasn't quite expecting that response I received last chapter - which was extreme. Theories and identities flipped left and right. I shall be honest and say unto you all that I...was surprised. But pleased too, of course, no denying that! Suggestions of Pyrus, Ollos, Vylornar, vampires...and somewhere in Sovngarde Hadvar dryly remarks, "What next, giant snakes?"**

 **In any case, have a slightly calmer chapter than that firestorm of a last, and anticipate Pyrus's next chapter only three updates away...**

 **On a side note: YEAAAAAAAAH ALL BLACKS! World winners AGAIN! We're proud of you, boys!**

* * *

 **d|b**

 **-Viper-**

It was the evening of, according to the others, the fifth day of Viper's stay in Sanctuary when she turned to the nameless Dunmer and told him, "Explain your mask to me."

He was delighted at her request. "You may hold it, if you wish," he said, and pressed it into her hands. She took it; the fabric was soft and supple where it was loose, and stern where it was not, shaping a face even when there was none behind it.

"Every assassin has their own individual mask," the Dunmer explained. "It becomes their trademark and calling card beyond Sanctuary, for none but family may see our faces. Inlaid with wonderful enchantments, they do well to veil our identities."

"But your voices," said Viper, frowning, "wouldn't people recognize your voices?"

"Did you recognize mine, when you first awoke?"

"No," she realized. "You sounded…un-Dunmer."

He chuckled. "I and my family are ghosts to the world," he said, "for the few who know of us know us only by the masks. Each is different, as you will have noticed. Each is made custom to us, and developed to further enhance our ability and success in every contract to come and to go unseen, like a gust of wind that bears a deathly scent. Mine was patterned in the likeness of the three deities I kill in the names of; Boethiah, Mephala and Azura, the Anticipations of the Tribunal."

Viper was puzzled. "You don't worship the Night Mother?"

"Of that I do," he answered, "for from her shadowy womb I was reborn, and to the Void I send the hapless souls that unknowingly call for death. But from these three I draw my strength, as do many of my people. You have heard of the Tribunal?"

"I heard a story of the three who made the Tribunal," Viper offered, "during the Year 2920 of the First Era; Sotha Sil, Almalexia, and Vivec." She liked retelling the twelve books to herself often. She'd rather enjoyed those.

"That is a good beginning to understanding, Sister-friend," the Dunmer assassin nodded, "and the three names you speak are true. The Good Daedra, who accepted the divinity of the Triune Ancestors, are the three whose sigils I have placed upon my mask, and whose names I spoke earlier. The sword that crosses my right eye is to represent Goldbrand, the golden blade, artifact of Boethiah. Oft is this artifact speculated to have been forged by the ancient dragons of the North. The Twilight Star upon my left is Azura's most sacred symbol, for she is the Dusk and the Dawn and the Mother Soul. The spider depicts Mephala, the Webspinner."

Viper studied the sanguine symbols more insightfully than before. "Do all the Dunmer race cherish these Daedra?" she asked.

"I would not be so bold as to say all," he answered, "but certainly, many of my people respect the Good Daedra. Their influence has grown in Morrowind especially since the bloody herald of the Fifth Era. Throughout my childhood I was raised to respect them, and respect them still I do. My soul may belong to the Void, and my loyalty owed to the Night Mother, but my faith is not denied, and so I honour the Anticipations."

She handed the mask back to him. _Not so fanatical, then,_ she brooded. _So they uphold this Night Mother of theirs, as is their duty as one of the Dark Brotherhood, but they may still believe what they wish to._ And the more she learned of the assassins, the less of a desire she had to leave. More seriously, Viper contemplated the idea of joining them permanently, of becoming a Sister to them all, and pledging herself to the service of the dark forces they enamoured.

It would not be a lonely life. Difficult, cold and demanding, no doubt, but she would not be alone—and, if the Listener could be believed, never again would she be betrayed. That alone was a tempting offer, for she would never forgive Cenrin, nor turn a mournful eye to the south of Skyrim again. To the Guild, she was dead and lost.

 _But I live and breathe, and I have the opportunity to become something else._

It was the thought of killing that unsettled her most. Viper feared death, so how could she give it willingly to others? And when she took her first life, she faced a lifetime of murder in the Brotherhood. _But is that not a good price to pay, to walk in perpetual darkness, to strike and leave unseen? To the world I could become like everyone else in the Sanctuary, a murderous phantom that spills sanguine for…_

For what, though? So she was made uncomfortable by the idea of religion, and gods, and deities. She believed in getting things done by her own ability. But she was free to do just that with the Brotherhood, was she not?

It seemed she was granted many liberties in the Brotherhood. She remained friends to one and all. Sister-friend, they called her, and days on they still expressed their gratitude for how she'd helped Nevada. Viper was allowed to explore and talk to one and all, and the questions she asked were answered. There was only one answer they would not give when she asked for it, and that was their names. She was not a sibling to them yet, and until she was, their names they concealed from her. Only Nevada's she knew, for Nevada had given it to her freely, to win her trust in such a situation that demanded just that.

The Nord had slipped into the clutches of Cadmir during a recon assignment in _Gahriknaar._ The Listener had sent her to observe the movements of the necromantic Dragonlord, but something had gone wrong that had resulted in her capture. During her stay in the cold cells, the Listener lost sight of her, and so the Brotherhood had mourned the loss of their Sister.

"But why were you sent to trace Cadmir at all?" Viper had asked her, after hearing this three days past.

Nevada, who'd been resting in an armchair beside one of the blazing hearths, closed her eye and sighed slowly. "Technically, I can't say," she said, "but I think you can have a pretty good guess why."

Viper had guessed. "There's a contract on his head."

Nevada's twisted grin appeared, though it was brief.

"For years, we've been approached by the people of Skyrim. Countless Black Sacraments have been performed, asking us to kill the three. Kill Ollos. Kill Cadmir. Kill Vylornar. And we have tried, Viper. The Listener had her mightiest assassins prepared for each individual tasks. Others of the Brotherhood gathered information about the targets. Multiple blessings were laid upon the chosen. And they never returned. The Dragonlords cannot be presumed, not when they themselves are imbued with dragon magic.

"But contracts remained, and so we are bound to completion. We have taken our time with them, however. Failure followed failure, but the Listener would not give up the contract, and nor would we. The Dragonlords' souls have been called to the void, and we must heed that call by our pledge to the Night Mother and the Dread Father."

As though sharing this knowledge had wearied her, Nevada sank back into her chair and turned her mutilated face to the glow of the flames. "I'm the first who's ever returned when they've faced the wrath of a Dragonlord," she said. "Aye, at a terrible price…but to be honest, it's you who they're interested in more, my Sisters and Brothers both."

"Why?"

"Why? Two of the three you've encountered, and both you escaped unmarked and unblemished. Your triumphs have excited the Brotherhood. You made Ollos weep, and stayed Cadmir's hand. At both your strongest and weakest, the Dragonlords couldn't touch you." A twinkle lit Nevada's eye. "So no wonder they respect you so, Viper. Where the best assassins have failed, a serpentine thief succeeded. Perhaps a snake is what is needed, not a phantom."

Thinking over her words once more, Viper was subject to a most peculiar sensation. _They need me—they hope I stay, then. It is like they are in awe of me, a thief whose luck turned sour._ But she couldn't deny her victories, and the sweetest of which had been escaping from Ollos. Sanctuary couldn't be found, and the dragons with their sharp eyes had lost sight of her. She'd been liberated from him—and as the fearsickness waned from her soul, she viewed the memory of him in a steady mind.

 _But escaping him has left me indebted,_ she knew. _I was certain to die, but I was saved, and my life belongs to these assassins, whether they have given me free reign to leave or not._ It seemed businesslike, really; before Viper was certain what life she could make for herself outside the Guild, this debt had to be repaid.

And so, more out of curiosity than anything, she asked the Dunmer assassin, "What is it like when you kill your first?"

He was pleased at her asking this, and his deep scarlet eyes glimmered with memory. "It is indeed a changing and binding thing, to lose your virginity to death," he said, "for you will never forget the first life that was taken by your hand. Mine was lost in the ashen fatherlands of Morrowind, on the thirteenth of First Seed, Year 39 of the Fifth Era—sixty-three years ago, with my adolescence still a fresh memory in my mind. During a game of cards, I became aware that I was being cheated—and by my own blood, no less. In my youth I freely confess arrogance and bloated pride, and my honour was paramount above all else, even family.

"Do you know another name that Boethiah is known by? The Prince of Plots; and plot I did, murderously indeed. I pleased the three Princes upon my mask on the thirteenth of First Seed, for as my victim slept I stole into his room and drew my dagger from ear to ear across his bare throat. I never lost the look in his eyes when he opened them in horror, and found me standing over him, satisfied in my vengeance. Then he became but another bright candle to light in Azura's realm, his soul claimed by Oblivion."

Viper was unsettled at how quite unremorsefully and pleasantly the Dunmer spoke of this. "You said he was of your own blood," she said. "Who was he?"

"My brother."

This sickened her, and she recoiled. The assassin smiled wanly at her expression. "I do not blame your disgust, Sister-friend," he observed, "and it pleases me, your reaction; it demonstrates that you have what many of us lose, a heart unsullied to a killer's cold blood. It is lost slowly by some of us, and I was no different. My brother was cold and dead in his bed, and I looked on his corpse and regretted it at once…but only for a time. I only knew now that it was time for me to take my leave, and never return, for fratricide is a sin viewed with deepest shame. My folk are depicted as proud, clannish, ruthless and cruel, and often this is true, but loyalty and family we uphold above all, and I had betrayed both. I would not be forgiven. So before the last star faded, I was away from home, and journeying far to where I would not be found by those seeking vengeance of their own. And in my travels, I lost all remorse, and reveled in my new ability to kill when I needed to. The blood of my people is fire, so it is said; but in my veins it ran chill as ice, and I welcomed it."

He looked at her, quite calmly. "A virgin kill is your most important," he said, "for it shapes your soul and defines you as a whole new being. If it does not mean something, then you will regret it, and the consequence of ill judgement will be a burden. Yet, Sister-friend, your continued hesitance intrigues me."

Viper narrowed her eyes. "How so?"

The Dunmer assassin placed the tips of two fingers upon his lips. "Your poisonous kiss is indeed something to fear," he said, "but serpents I find such serious creatures. They do not play with their food."

"So what do you suggest?"

His dark eyes gleamed. "Make it their last."

To this, Viper smiled wryly. Yes, there was that possibility. It would be simple to make her poison fatal; amid the other ingredients, essence of nightshade would tip the balance she'd made, and all vital organs would become as paralyzed as the body. "A batch that kills," she mused. "To what end? I am no assassin."

"That road remains open to you, Sister-friend," the Dunmer reminded.

"But I don't know if I can," Viper confessed.

He offered her a look of reassurance. "There is bitterness in you," he said. "Welcome it. You hate much of the world, and let that guide you. Our Listener's wisdom is unerring. If you allow her, she will shape you into another hand of the Night Mother, to guide the souls of the wicked to their rightful place in the Void. But, and this is most often the case, many of our new Brothers and Sisters discover the potential within themselves on their own, and they grow on their own."

"And you think I'm one of these independent assassin sleepers?" Viper snorted.

"I can imagine you to be."

The answer was solemn and earnest, quelling her immediate disdain. Once more she wondered; could she make a new life for herself here? The thought no longer seemed so outrageous. And she had had time to think over it, to accustom herself to all that had occurred since her leaving the Cistern almost a month ago.

 _Repay the debt I owe,_ Viper decided, _and perhaps that will inspire me to come to a final decision._

She stood. "Where are you going?" the Dunmer asked.

"To speak with your Listener. Where can I find her?"

"Listening."

Viper divined the meaning; it seemed that was where the Listener was always to be found, in the silent stone chamber where even the faintest sound was grossly augmented. She knew her way around the Sanctuary well enough to find her way there on her own. Outside the room she lingered and quelled the last dubious thought in her head. _This is my choice,_ she frowned, _for good or for ill. I owe that much to these people._

So as quietly as she could, she opened the door and entered.

The Listener was exactly the same as Viper had first seen her, seated upon the floor before the upright coffin. As fluid as a stream, she rose to her feet and turned, with her candle-like eyes shining with welcome.

"You have had the necessary time, my child?"

"Yes, thank you." Viper dropped her gaze. "I know you haven't called for me…"

"To come when called is obedience," the Listener said softly, "but to come uncalled is initiative. Now, sweet child, what purpose is this pleasure?"

Viper looked up. "Until I repay my life's debt to you and your Brotherhood, I cannot decide. I feel obligated to join, because Nevada saved me, but I do not enjoy being forced into doing anything. Any decision I make must be my own, or I resent it quickly."

The Listener blinked. "That is reasonable."

"Help me, then. There must be something I can do to unbind me from you."

"There is, child. Sister Nevada spoke highly of your skills, and your reputation precedes you. Such talent must be put to use. Demonstrate this to me and to the Brotherhood—and clear your name, if that is how you view your spared life—and consider this trouble relieved."

Viper folded her arms. "What do you need?"

The Listener smiled. "Come, then, willing child," she said, and silently she departed the chamber.

Viper followed her through the Sanctuary until they came into a small but tidy dwelling that could only be the Listener's quarters. There was a large table occupying the centre of the room, and a small hearth that blazed quite cheerfully in one corner, with a bed across from it. Upon the table lay various scrolls, parchments and inkpots. One scroll was unrolled across the desktop. A closer inspection revealed that it was a map of the Jerall Mountains, the alps that divided the south of Skyrim from the north of Cyrodiil.

"There is a task which I must attend to," the Listener began, beckoning Viper to her side. Her long, golden fingers traced a mark she'd made among the peaks. "Among the shallowest peaks, a day's ride southwest from the mountain pass, lies an ancient citadel whose ruins trace back to the days of the Akaviri. It is a site unknown by many, for it is forgotten—but the Night Mother has told me that shadows gathers in the mountains there, cast by great black wings."

Viper turned quickly to her. "Dragons, you mean?"

"Indeed," the Altmer frowned, "and not only dragons—leaders shall gather here, in the ruins of this old Akaviri outpost. In secret, a council has been called. The southern fires are dwindling now, the rage of their inferno subsiding. But this has not escaped the Night Mother. She has bade that I must also be in attendance, but wreathed in the welcome darkness, where I may hear all that would pass unheard. It will further the hunt we lead for those over and over sought dead."

"The Dragonlords are meeting here," Viper realized, and immediately she thought of Ollos, and Cadmir. _Vylornar will probably be attending as well._ "To what end?"

"That is what I do not know," the Listener answered, "and what I must find out."

"So what do you need me for?"

"I would like you to come with me."

Viper knew she should have expected this, and through her growing haze of unease she berated herself. "Why?" she managed.

"Your experience," said the Listener gently. "I admire your success over Ollos and perceive it to be a good omen. You have natural talent, and this may be applied again. I will not travel to the Pass alone, and your company will make certain that we shall come and go unseen. The Night Mother herself believes that you are the one best suited to join me on such a mission."

"Does your Night Mother know I don't believe in her?"

"Her thoughts are her own—I only listen and obey, for she has never led me wrong."

Viper clenched a fist, but could bring no further protest against the Brotherhood's belief. "If we are found?" she inquired, and shuddered at the quite real possibility. _To walk into the maw of the dragon…_ "I'm no warrior, or a killer, just a thief down on her luck."

"But you are more than just that." The Listener's warm hand rested on Viper's shoulder. "You helped Sister Nevada, and the two of you triumphed over the twisted Dragonlord. If you will help me, we will have a victory over much more than Cadmir. There is knowledge to be gained from this, and this new century shall be the one when the Dragonlords will fall from power, by our hand, or by fate's. It matters not, so long as our contracts stand fulfilled."

"Your contracts, you mean," Viper corrected, carefully. "I'm not one of the Brotherhood."

"You are Sister-friend, and mine, my child," the Listener smiled. She pressed both her palms upon the map between them. "And that will not change if you refuse—but if you seek to repay our kindness, then you are most welcome to aid me."

Viper closed her eyes. _I decided this,_ she thought, but could not ignore the twinge of fear in her soul. _Dragonlords…not one, but all three, and perhaps even more._ "I'll be recognized," she murmured. "They've seen my face."

"Such a thing is easily amended, my child."

The Listener turned to a small cabinet set at the foot of her bed. She opened it, withdrew something, and returned, bearing a dark folded bundle in her arms. This she presented to Viper, who became aware of a leather feel in her hands. Streaks of deep burgundy were visible against the dark fabric. "An assassin's raiment," she murmured.

"It is more than that," said the Listener. "It is the armour from my days preceding my leadership over the Brotherhood. This set was granted to me when I was first welcomed to the family. It has served me well, and it shall you for this most trying of tasks. The inlaid enchantments have aged in strength with the time that has passed, and shall resonate with your gifts."

With instructions to find her at the stables once dressed, she excluded herself so Viper could change, which was done mainly out of curiosity. The studded leather was worn but tough, and clung to her slight frame as if it had been tailored for her—perhaps the mentioned enchantments were responsible for that, as the Altmeri assassin was much taller than the slim Breton thief. It felt sterner than her Guild leathers, and had plenty of belts and buckles and almost no pockets at all, but she liked it very much. The boots fitted well and the gloves even better.

Once the last dome on her wrist had been fastened, she reached for the final piece of the set. In her gloved palms she held a hood as black as night, not one of the full-face assassin masks as she'd expected. There was a band of cloth that she could use to cover her mouth and nose, leaving her eyes to peer out from beneath the hood's rim. _A real assassin's cowl,_ Viper thought wryly, as she donned the hood and pulled the cloth mask over the bridge of her nose. She investigated her new appearance in a basin of water, and was pleased. Her visage was shrouded.

She smiled and lowered the cloth mask. _It will serve._

She certainly felt different. Her mind felt focused and strong. Into her heart she accepted that she was, most likely, to meet Ollos again, but under very different circumstances. _He will not see me,_ she vowed, _for in shadow or darkness I will conceal myself from all the world but those I have come to trust—but when I will be seen, and only by my choosing, they will weep red tears in my name…and more._

So Viper went, but did not immediately progress to the stables. In a little corner of the Sanctuary was another natural cave, in which dwelled a particularly ancient member of the Brotherhood. Viper had taken a liking to this particular assassin, whose alchemic abilities matched Celandine's, and that was where she found her now, seated at her alchemy table crushing herbs in a mortar. She had to stand on a stool to reach the table surface.

"What is it you're making now?" Viper asked as she entered, though in the frigid air the scent of dragon's tongue and blisterwort was quite stark.

"Oh, I'm just experimenting," came the idle answer. "All the important stuff I made this morning." She put the pestle down and turned, and assumed a startled expression. "You look different!" she chirruped. "Are you my Sister now?"

Viper shook her head. "I'm joining your Listener on a journey, that's all."

The alchemist giggled, brandishing particularly pointed canines. "I can see that now," she said. "You're wearing her old armour. You have a hood, and all the others don't now. Hoods are much better for hiding your eyes, don't you agree? But they're not as decorative, and I like decorated things. If I still kept going out on the field, I'd have a mask, but that would be annoying for me." She grimaced. "It gets in the way when you bite someone. Anyway," she continued, turning back to her mortar, "if you're going on a big quest with the Listener, you'd better get going. The Listener doesn't like waiting."

"I just want a few ingredients for the journey."

"Ooh!" Excited, the assassin bounced off her stool—her head barely rose higher than Viper's waist. "Are you going to make your poisons? Can I watch, please? Pretty please? I dearly want to know how you do it."

Viper smiled a little. "I never said anything about making it here."

"Aww…" The other pouted. "Please?"

"You said it yourself, the Listener is waiting. Do you have a spare satchel? I need to take some things with me."

"To make your special poison, right?"

"If it's needed."

The alchemist clapped her hands in delight. "That's awesome! Okay, what do you need? And I'm going to remember all the ingredients, you know, so I might just figure it out on my own. It might take a while, but it's not as if time's any problem, is it?" Her grin broadened, and her fangs were made all the more prominent.

A spare satchel was soon found and stored with apparatus and the required ingredients. The larder wasn't lacking, and each pungent herb, fungi, flower or root was carefully sealed and preserved so they could maintain their potential for longer. "I know I shouldn't really be asking," the assassin admitted as Viper slung the bag over her shoulder, "but I can't help it, I'm curious. Where are you and the Listener going?"

"South."

"To the greenwood?"

"Possibly."

A more businesslike manner overcame the youthful impersonation. "Well, if you happen across any Spriggans, could you ask the Listener to cull a few of them? Their taproot's invaluable and I'm starting to run low." Then she was bright and bubbly once again. "Anyway, good luck, and good hunting, Sister-friend! But you'll have to excuse me now, the spiders need milking."

Viper swiftly proceeded to the stables. She hated spiders.

Both the Listener and Nevada were waiting for her when she arrived. The scarred Nord took one look at her, and there appeared her lopsided grin. "You actually look dangerous now. Thank the gods. Anyway, here you go." Reins were thrust into Viper's hands. "He's yours for the trip, but so much as scratch him and you'll have hell to pay when you return. I've grown quite fond of this hairy one."

The stolen horse from _Gahriknaar_ , restored to his full strength after six days of rest and loving care—with a slight difference. His bridle had his name etched in scarlet lettering, and his saddle was marked with a dark handprint.

"I'll try not to scratch him, then," Viper offered.

The Listener stood beside her own steed, an enormous stallion as black as shadow. It seemed to Viper that his rolling eyes flickered crimson in certain lights. She mounted him; over her pitch robes she wore a sable cloak that still permitted her silver hair to flow freely over her shoulders and front.

"Here, you'll need one, too." Nevada swept a cloak over Viper's shoulders and fastened it with a pin. "Night riding is bloody freezing—for you, at least."

Viper grinned. "I'll try not to fall off this time."

"We will ride under cover of darkness," the Listener said, "and pray for moonless nights to guide us swiftly to our destination."

Viper climbed into the saddle, relishing the solidness and heat of the horse under her. "So long as I'm not shoved in a damn tinder box during the day, I'll follow gladly."

"Then let us ride, Sister-friend. The sun has long set."

 _Yes,_ she thought with a smile. _Let us go and visit the serpent's cousins._

 **d|b**


	37. XXXVI - Clear in Translation

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

According to Falen, the wyrms had flown away and north from Markarth, and according to Kierra, they were low to the ground so as to take appropriate refuge among the high cliffs and old highland territory. Nurr believed the both of them.

"There's an old crypt I recall in this vicinity," Falen frowned as they collected themselves in an abandoned troll cave, night setting in heavily around them. "Ragnvald, it's called. Enormous decorative arches adorn the vast entrance outside the old ruin. Those would make perches suitable for dragons young or old, while the plaza below is broad enough for even a full-grown dragon to curl."

"That's their location, then," Marcel announced.

Nurr frowned at him. "So you've seen them gathered there, have you?"

The boy blinked. "Uh…well, no, not yet…"

Nurr's voice hardened. "You haven't seen them gathered in the dale of Ragnvald, nor have you ever _been_ to the dale of Ragnvald, yet you ascertain that that is the only place where our quarry might gather? The rest of the mountains of Markarth are unsuitable for them? They could be found no place else at all?"

Marcel seemed to understand, finally. He ducked his eyes in appropriate shame. "I'm sorry, I just…I thought—"

"You presumed," Nurr interrupted harshly. "You must _never presume_ with these monstrosities. You can never know the true mind of the dragon unless you're half a one, and clearly those poor bastards can be twisted into just as abhorrent abominations." He allowed the impact of his words to sink firmly under the lad's skin. "Never presume, boy. Always anticipate. Maybe then you'll get to my age and have a few kills under your boot."

"I'm sorry," Marcel tried again.

Kierra shot Nurr a look. Growling out the rest of his impatience, and trying to ignore the indignant stare Raegim was certainly sending his way, Nurr continued. "It's _most likely_ ," he said crisply, "that the old crypt is where they'd congregate. It's sheltered from the worst of the Reach weather, and there's room for more than one to gather. Currently we are…how many miles south of the place?"

Falen consulted his map. "Three miles or so from here."

"Right." Nurr rubbed his temples. Gods, he hated leadership. How the hell did Lio keep up with it? "For now we need to establish a perimeter. Falen, you know this land best. I want you to find out if the wyrms are outside the crypt and, if they are, to discover an alternative way in that allows Auril and I to get close enough to hear anything they're saying. Marcel—" How that boy jumped. "—go with Falen. I've heard only good things of you from Jor. Prove them tonight." Nurr hoped he'd kept enough of the sarcasm out of his voice so as not to hurt the kid's feelings. Marcel gave no sign of it. His face just lit up, he nodded breathlessly, and scurried after the Bosmer.

Glad the boy was out of the way now, Nurr turned to Kierra. "You're the best at keeping the soul of our mission under control. I continue to entrust his welfare to you. Stay here, manage the horses, don't move more than half a mile from this location."

Kierra rolled her eyes at him. "Aye, sir," she said unenthusiastically. No doubt she was tired of mothering the fretful Imperial, whose eyes jumped nervously between Redguard and Khajiit, his hands seemingly determined to tie each other into a knot.

"Raegim," Nurr continued, "come with me. There's something I want you to see."

They were on their way, and he was impressed she had the tact to wait until they were at least out of earshot of those behind them, when Raegim started on him. "What is it you have against Marcel?" she demanded.

As he did often with Emilyn, Nurr decided to draw this thing out. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

Raegim was far from stupid. "Yes you do. You know full well."

Nurr pictured her puffing up with righteous anger, which succeeded in making him feel slightly wretched. "Marcel," he said at last, "is not suited for this sort of life."

"You don't know that."

"Oh yes I do, girl."

"How?"

"How? Well, not only have I known that gangly lad from his first day in the Temple, I've seen him fight, and each time I see that I want to cringe. Understandably he was confused around a sword as a kid—most are, especially if they've come from non-fighting families—but he never improved. A year on he was the bum of his peers. A year later, the laughing stock, the joke of the Order." Nurr turned to Raegim. "I'm hard on him because it's for his own bloody good. This isn't a nice world, and this isn't a world that's welcome to mistakes. One mistake in this life means you are most likely dead or worse. I can only see Marcel doing just that, and it's going to kill him."

Raegim's brow furrowed. "He's good for other things," she insisted. "He's sensible. He helped me when we had to hide."

"Hiding would have been less risky; we blended back there," Nurr corrected. "But yes," he admitted, "he has a bit of sense. At least he knows when to put his head down." He frowned at the girl. "Good thing you didn't panic, though if you did you'd be afraid of the things, am I right?"

"Probably, Nurrkha'jay. The wyrms weren't a threat, anyway. They didn't even notice us."

"So imagine the threat they'd be if they had seen us."

"They would've attacked? How would you know?"

"How?" Nurr repeated incredulously. "They would have! Wyrms are desperate little beasts determined to grow into their wings, and there's no faster way than stuffing themselves—preferably on us, men and mer. What in Nirn makes you think otherwise?"

Raegim shrugged. "I thought you didn't know everything about the dragons."

"We know enough," Nurr growled, "and I know enough about those brutes to know that Marcel is not dragon slayer material. I can't understand what the hell Jor saw in him."

"Jor believed in him," said Raegim, "so why can't you?"

Nurr laughed at that one. "Because," he said, "Jor and I have never seen eye to eye. If I say 'right' he'll say 'left'. We're opposites like that."

The last of the sunset was fading from the sky. Patched cloud revealed glimpses of two astonishingly bright moons, though mist remained thick throughout the valleys. Nurr would have preferred it darker, but at least that meant the girl could occasionally see where she was putting her feet.

"He's a good heart," Raegim insisted eventually. "He's kind. He's practical."

"Good qualities," Nurr admitted, "but that doesn't make him a slayer."

"So what else could he have been, if not like you?"

"Several things. He might have made an excellent acolyte, for example. The physically inept often gravitate to that sort of service. Keep working at that trade, and Marcel would have earned a good deal more respect as a junior archivist than he currently has as a warrior. I doubt he would have made as good a spy. Too timid."

"Are those all the occupations of an Order, then?" asked Raegim. "Slayer, archivist or spy?"

Nurr shook his head. Oh, how to explain? "If you want to get technical, there are only two occupations available in the Blades Order however you'll see it: agent or archivist. That was the way of it three hundred years ago, and that's the way of it again. The Apprentice enforced that, bringing together a smattering of all she knew of the present, the past, and the _very_ distant past to create this future, making us more than a match for our ancient enemy."

"Could you explain?"

"I'll try, I haven't had a drink in a while. Used to be that Blades worked for the Empire, as you'll probably know quite well at this point. We had agents scattered throughout the entirety of Tamriel, in the most obscure of places. Farmhands or merchants, alchemists or sellswords, no occupation was too high or too low to play the most effective cover. All reported to the Grandmaster, the most reclusive of them all. The Grandmaster was the pinnacle of the agents, just as the Chronicler was the pinnacle of the archivists."

"Chronicler?"

"The fellow…ah…" _How did they phrase it in the old history texts?_ "The person in charge of not knowing the mission in detail," said Nurr slowly, "but ensuring that it was never lost. Something rather vague and cryptic like that"

Raegim tried to puzzle it through. "Would Rendal be our Chronicler then?"

Nurr snorted. "No idea. I tend to stay well away from that side of affairs in the Order. All I know is that Rendal is the old wise man who tends to the old tomes and texts to make sure they're never lost. Guess you could consider him a Chronicler, if anything.

"Going back to the original topic, you're either an agent or archivist. This new Fifth Age Order focuses on two branches of agent work. You're either what we once were in the past, monitors of the enemy's activities while playing good cover as an ordinary citizen of this twisted new empire, or what we once were in the _very_ distant past, echoes of our predecessors the Dragonguard. Those ones, me, Lio, Kierra and so on, are bladed and reside permanently in the Temple, awaiting further instruction. Our spies only come back to us if they're compromised or if they have new recruits."

"And archivists?"

"If we're the brawn, they're the brain. Their duty is to make sure the rest of the Order isn't blind stupid when they head out. Insight is practically foresight in these dire times—especially when it concerns dragons." Nurr gave a dry laugh. "You've no idea how much preparation goes in before each raid, child. Before every one of them, we learn the type of dragon we're about to kill, whether it be brown-skins or the rarer Reds. Each fellow selected to join the hunt studies an anatomy chart the archivists provide and update at the first opportunity, which is infrequent, to say the least. Rarely do we capture dragons alive. In any case, studying those charts gives us the benefit of knowing where to aim when we confront the horror."

Raegim seemed thoughtful. "Capturing dragons? You capture them?"

Was she reflecting on his earlier explanation on how Blades would willingly exterminate entire nests, including the babies? Nurr shook his head to that, and answered, "Rarely, I repeat. Rarely. Originally, when the Temple was unsealed over a century ago, it wasn't as extended as it's become today. Saying this, we didn't have the Dragon Trench."

"Dragon Trench?" she echoed.

Nurr knew that tone. "You haven't been down to the cells yet, then."

"I didn't know we even had anything of the sort."

"Know now, we do. The Apprentice herself oversaw its construction in the bowels of the Temple. Would-be wayfarers seeking the Temple, dragonmen patrols that came by too close, dragons themselves, the cells are constructed to hold any and all of our mindful enemies. That's how most of our anatomy papers originated, from dragons ensnared by the growing Blades Order—all in secret, which was what made the Apprentice all the more remarkable—archivists jump at the opportunity to examine a live specimen."

Raegim shook her head. "That's barbaric," she muttered.

 _As barbaric as killing hatchlings, you mean?_ Nurr flattened his ears. _She could be right, but we know no longer. She's just a child. She still sees our ways with foreign eyes. Forgive her. Be patient, as Gelwin was timelessly with you._ "These wyrms we're tailing," Raegim went on, "are we going to kill them or capture them?"

"Neither," said Nurr firmly. "This is an observation. Strictly. We want to divine the purpose for their recent rowdiness. Their manner of performing such destruction is…unusual, to have Emilyn describe it. Wyrms don't operate in packs like wolves. Usually they're competing for resources."

She'd gone quiet at the mention of wolves. Nurr hastily left the subject.

"Going back to the function of archivist and their acolytes: history is theirs to keep, to preserve and to build upon for the next generations to come. We draw strength from the past to last out the present. You spend years under Rendal's tutorage as an acolyte, and then they have a quiet little ceremony of their own when you are burdened with that responsibility of archivist—which is, essentially, a librarian who can boss everyone else about. Only they don't. Humility appears to be drilled into every acolyte from day one."

Raegim picked her way over a particularly gritty bit of highland before she asked next, "So we are the agents of the _very_ distant past, then?"

"You could say that," Nurr replied, helping her up. "Slayers, I suppose. We never call ourselves that, though. Forget I ever did. Blade suffices. If we hang around Sky Haven Temple donned in the proud armour of our predecessors, our purpose is pretty clear; we're the fellows who transcend into the perfect dragon slayers." He eyed the girl to make sure she was taking all this in. He needn't have worried. "But almost half of our Order isn't to be found in the Temple. They play the part of spy, scattered throughout Skyrim, playing the convincing roles of simpleton farmers or servants in warden courts, all the while providing Emilyn intelligence of current affairs. You'll find our influence has spread to almost every settlement. A most effective way of keeping our ranks filled."

They had a short reprieve as they scrambled over a treacherous yawning canyon, where mist swirled coolly far below them. The ground was arching uphill. They'd made good time, Nurr considered. The last of dragonsong had faded slowly from the world. He wondered if all this scrabbling and riding had been for nothing; if the wyrms had decided to sleep out the night. At least, if Ragnvald did serve as it, they'd uncovered their lair, and where better did creatures loosen their tongues than in the comfort of what they considered home?

"There are ranks in all this, I hope you know," Nurr added, as the moons slipped behind a drift of cloud. "We've a master-of-arms, usually the greatest warrior of his day now retired, responsible now for shaping the new generation of warriors to come after him. We also have a blacksmith, who's trained in the old Akaviri arts of smithcraft and keeps all our bits of metal sharp and shiny. Yes, even he gets initiates like that Orc lad, what's-his-face…"

"Slag."

"Knew that. Emilyn, of course, is Grandmaster, the matriarch of this entire operation, and Rendal we just agreed is the closest thing to a Chronicler we've got. Those are the formal ranks. We have ranks among ourselves, unspoken and undeclared, but we all know it, and we tick along nicely like clockwork. And that brings an end to the lecture." Nurr studied his apprentice thoughtfully. "Something tells me that you'd do rather well in both regards of agent, but you've been assigned to me. That means you're probably going to follow in my footsteps one day." More seriously, he added, "So it's my job to make you ready for that day."

Raegim caught up to him and looked him dead in the eye. "I'll train hard," she vowed. "This is my life now."

Nurr's whiskers twitched. Her constant seriousness for such a young child never ceased to amuse him. "So it seems. You've clicked in quite well with our affairs, haven't you?"

They continued on. "Well enough," Raegim confessed. "There's much to learn, and this is a dramatic change from the life Agalf and I once led…but we will prevail, I know we will. Like heroes in the stories our parents told us at night, who conquered the impossible because they wanted to. Will drives us forward. It's the only thing that can, really."

Nurr chuckled. "Who taught you that one, then?"

She blinked. "No one," she answered. "It just made sense."

"Keep telling yourself things like that, then. That'll help you stay alive."

The wind was growing stronger. They were nearly where Nurr wanted them to be.

"Where is it we're going?" Raegim asked, puffing a little. Nurr was suddenly reminded that the girl wasn't used to moving in such heavy armour, even if it was shrunken to her size. She was doing quite well in this. "What was it that you wanted me to see?" she added, at his responding silence.

"Wait."

Nurr hauled himself up and over a cliff, and reached down and pulled Raegim up after him. He stood her up. The wind was so strong it slapped them both in the face and brought water to their eyes. It tore Nurr's hood clean off and stung his ears. He gestured to the dark countryside sprawled out below him. "We're at the pinnacle of a ridge of stone," he said, "and we can see days' journeys from this point. Wait for the moons to come out, and you'll see what I want you to see."

They didn't have to wait long. Cloaks flapping in the gale, they stood on the cliff peak. Raegim's senses were drifting across the Reach, but Nurr's attention was focused to one distant dark smudge only his eyes could see in the darkness.

Until the moons were aglow in the sky once more.

"Find the Karth," he murmured without turning away. "Find it. Should be a streak of silver in all this mud and stone."

"I see it," the girl said after a second or two. "I think I can even see the shelf where the Temple's hidden."

"Follow it north," said Nurr.

Raegim seemed puzzled, but obeyed without question. "There's…something on the horizon," she mused. "Looks like a little town. What's there to see?"

"Look again," Nurr ordered.

This she did, and her face, pinched with the cold, paled somewhat. "Do you know what that is?" Nurr asked her.

She didn't tear her eyes away from the sight beyond. "Ruins," she breathed.

Nurr studied the ashen skeleton of what once had been a hamlet, tucked in the shadow of the mountains overlooking the Karth River. "Falen would know its name," he rasped. "Think, child. Think on what you see. Once it was a prosperous little town, able to scratch a living off rock just like all the other settlements to be found outside the city walls. Then dragons found it, and whether those townsfolk were supporters or secret crusaders, they all burned one day or night."

He gestured as he continued. "Someone of high regard must have lived there, you know; there are ruins of a longhouse amid the blackened stones of cottages. I can see what used to be a blacksmith's workshop. His forge is fallen to pieces, his home reduced to dust—and the smith? Well, he probably made a juicy mouthful. I wonder if he had a family, and if their fates were his when this town fed some dragons' insatiable appetites."

"I've seen a burned house once," Raegim whispered. "One of our townsfolk didn't quell his fire one night, and it spread. Nobody died, though…they all got out, and the house was burned out, a black shell of what it once had been…such destruction amazed me…"

"Be amazed further," Nurr muttered, flattening his ears. "Dragons have done this—and do you know how I know, Raegim? If it were stronger light, I'd show you—there are vast streaks and scorches in the earth, long black lines that prove that it was dragonfire, for those brutes love nothing better than laying waste to their crawling foes while they glide above us on bone-and-blood wings.

"Now have a deeper think about this; you don't know the town, you don't know the people, you don't even know its name—but just imagine its soul. That shouldn't be hard for one who once was a part of such a community. Labouring men, labouring women, children at play and elders at rest; various animals, pets and livestock, shambling about on their business; travellers, spending a night at an inn, having their weapons sharpened and armour mended at that blacksmith's, or merchants simply come to trade. There was a thriving soul here once, and the dragons, for seemingly no reason, decided to kill it. They burn the houses, devour or slaughter the people, and gorge themselves on the flesh of the defeated while they savour their bloody victory. The town's defenses are badly designed, for dragons are our overlords now, and so to arm ourselves against them would be viewed as an act of treachery. But it's right for them, apparently, to kill their slaves when they want to be fed and can't be bothered tracking goats through the mountains. Of course the settlement didn't stand a chance. Those who didn't run were lost. Injustice after injustice was performed that night the town died, whatever it once had been—and what happened then? The cinders were left to taint the air, the dragons departed to whatever business awaited them beyond, and the town was abandoned and forgotten."

Nurr shook his head. "How many times this has happened, Raegim…some of your Blades Brothers can tell you of surviving such incidents. It's how so many have fallen among our numbers. We've agents scattered across Skyrim, disguised in plainclothes, residing in hovels and cities under guises and aliases clever enough to fool even a dragon's ever-knowing eye. Their job is to keep track of our enemy's movements, and to keep our Order supplied with new vengeful souls to join our crusade."

Raegim turned away. "Like what happened with Agalf and I, and Valheim," she murmured.

"Aye." Nurr planted a hand on her plated shoulder. "That town, girl, was just a glimpse of what villainies these creatures do. You'll hear a dragon proclaim his honour, but that's a poisoned perception at best; true honour is about keeping your word, and those townspeople rightly believed that so long as they showed loyalty to the dragon cause, they would not be harmed. Their banes didn't even need a true reason. Hunger and lust for destruction drove them to that attack. A foreshadowing of what our unchecked horrors are capable of committing."

She closed her eyes. "I still cannot fear them," she said. "I'm only disgusted, and angry."

"I've mixed feelings about that response," Nurr muttered.

Raegim's brow furrowed. "Is anger bad to feel?"

"It's like fear, girl; when you can channel it right, nothing serves you better in the fight."

"Strange. I would've thought that anger would have been a burden. A distraction."

"It takes practice, and years and years of it, to master our emotions so that even in the high tide and flush of battle, our heads are clear and our wit is as sharp as an assassin's blade. Anger reinforces the purpose and the drive. Fear keeps us, for the most part, out of harm's way. Ever wonder how you can achieve the impossible in a flush of adrenalin?"

She considered this a rhetorical question. Nurr sighed. "Come on. Seeing a dragon's destruction, and seeing a dragon, are two very different things."

He wondered if it had been a good idea to bring Raegim on this hunt after all. All she'd learned was not really of dragons, but of the Order itself, which she could have gained in good time from skulking about the Temple eavesdropping on various conversations. Nurr suspected a full report to Emilyn when ( _if!_ ) he returned, and he didn't like the face she wore when he presented said report in his mind…

He was jolted from his thoughts by the descent down. Apparently, climbing _up_ something was a good deal easier than climbing _down_. In the darkness, it was treacherous even for a Khajiit. The ledge they'd been using for a path became precarious at best, resulting him often scrabbling for purchase. He often had to turn back and haul Raegim down from something he considered too dangerous for a kid to scramble down in the pitch. _She really is too small for this,_ Nurr berated himself. _Maybe bringing her along was a mistake after all. No way am I letting this on to Jor, but she's only been in the Order barely a month. Remind me, why did I take her with me?_

He answered his own question. _To let her experience dragons without restraint._

 _And eavesdropping on, quite possibly, an entirely Draconic conversation will really help._

Nurr cast the dubious thoughts from his skull. Only one way was ever open to a Blade; forward.

They came back to the cave, where in the gathering brume a small fire had been kindled. Kierra sat huddled beside it, stirring something in a small iron pot. Auril was feverishly going over his notes. The horses (and pony) dozed placidly behind them. Nurr had barely opened his mouth to speak when his ears tingled to the sound of scrambling footsteps. He spun around, hand automatically on his bow, to the sight of Falen and Marcel bounding into the depression.

"They're there!" Marcel gasped, with eyes shining from a bloodless face.

"In the crypt dale," Falen clarified. "They're still awake, and gorging when we found them. They'd raided farms outside the city walls."

Nurr's countenance darkened as he released his weapon. "How many?"

"Five—Marcel counted six," Falen added, frowning.

"There was!" Marcel piped up. "Six! It wasn't a shadow!"

"Silence, boy!" Nurr snapped, and Marcel's mouth clapped shut. Ignoring the look Raegim sent his way, he turned back to Falen. "Any alternative route in?"

"There's a good climb to a ridge overlooking the dale. Your map, Nurr. I'll mark it in. I'm not going back there." There was a crispness to Falen's tone that suggested no argument was required.

Nurr, of course, argued. "Why the hell not?"

Falen's amber glare hardened. "It's not just livestock they're eating."

Nurr wanted to protest further—dragons ate mortals all the time, that was the very soul of this goddamned tyranny, was it not?—but something stopped him. He'd heard Falen's story once, several years ago, while he was rather drunk…but he recalled snippets of it now. Rogghart had patted the Bosmer on his back and assured him that he understood, quite horrifically well.

"Fine," he grumbled, passing the map to Falen, who took it wordlessly and settled by the flames. Nurr then turned to Raegim. "You're still awake, I take it?"

She blinked, startled. "You mean…?"

"You're coming. I want you to see this."

Raegim, still bewildered, ducked her head in acceptance. Kierra, meanwhile, had fixed a mistrusting stare upon Nurr, and she irritably beckoned him to a dark corner where they could mutter in peace. Nurr stumped over.

"You sick or something?" Kierra hissed. "That sort of sight might scar her!"

"And all the better it does," Nurr snapped back, "else she'll never get her head into this life."

"Give her time!"

"Time is of the essence, damn it," Nurr retorted. "The girl has to know what monsters they can be."

Kierra folded her arms. "She's _ten_ , Moon."

"That's old enough." Something most bitter crept into Nurr's tone, souring his tongue. "Don't tell me children her age haven't seen horrors. Her entire village was slaughtered by wolves. She knows the sight of a corpse."

"Nurrkha'jay!" Falen proffered the map. "Best of luck."

Kierra glowered at him and stalked back to the flames. Nurr closed his eyes, sighed, and went to collect his folded parchment. "Raegim, Auril!" he rasped. "Come on. Those sprats will be lively for a while yet after their meal."

They came, one more quietly than the other. Nurr drew his cloak tighter about himself and led the way into the highland fog.

Without Kierra to shut him up, Auril's frenzied mutterings rang unchecked as they progressed deeper into the highlands of the Reach. The Imperial jumped at every shadow. Nurr wondered what sort of hellish past he must've had to have made him so timid; he was certain books and parchment didn't terrorize their tenders to that extent. That was probably the only trifle that came close to amusing him as they walked the miles north, the moons slowly climbing higher and higher into the sky. The clouds were growing thicker, less light slipping free. There were times when even Nurr had some slight difficulty seeing.

Unexpectedly he turned to Raegim, who trod quietly just behind him. "You tired?" he grunted.

Raegim blinked, then shook her head.

"It's like late-night hunts at home," she said, "but…to be honest, I've had trouble sleeping ever since _Krentuld_ was lost." Something nostalgic crept over her face. Nurr decided to shut up while he was ahead.

Auril skipped up behind them, nervously running his palm over the flat of his head. With an accompanying noisy swallow he asked, jittering, "How…how…how many did the boy say there'd…there'd be, of the dragon youths?"

Nurr snorted. "Does it matter?"

"Just that…just that…" Auril caught himself and tried again. "How many can you shoot?" he asked with infinite care.

"As many as that need shooting," was Nurr's gruff answer.

He consulted his map. "The trail is just up ahead," he announced, softly; in the thickening fog his senses were muted, which meant there could be an enemy close at hand and they might not even realize it. "Everyone, keep near." At this he halted them and looked firmly at both child and adult. "I presume you know the first rule of following a Khajiit in the dark?"

Both appeared respectfully blank.

"Don't pull on his goddamned tail."

They began the climb to what Falen had labelled the summit, a good observation point for happenings below. Nurr soon found himself appreciating this little group, which surprised him. Despite her tripping, stumbling or near-falling every hesitant step, Raegim persisted without a sound of protest, and a most interesting change had come over Auril. He stopped quavering, his head finally screwed on the right way, he shut up, and in his eyes gleamed the focused expression Nurr had seen many times in the stares of his fellow Blades as they prepared to assault a dragon's lair. Unparalleled concentration. This was Auril's moment, his area of expertise; perhaps he was glad to finally be of use.

Beyond came the distant sound of muted snarls, thuds and growls.

Nurr soundlessly motioned both to wait while he bounded up the last few rocks and crawled on his front to the edge of the risen peak. Ragnvald stretched below him, a treacherous valley of stones and gritty earth and ancient carvings that had survived since the Dragon Wars. Clinging to the broken arches or sprawled across the spacious plaza below were the wyrms.

Nurr disliked wyrms. How they appeared tended to annoy him. Their grand crests, distinctive horns and the fullness of their colouring were all yet to come out, which was probably not going to be for several decades or so; for now they just appeared lean, scrawny lizards with massive talons, an absurdly long tail and oversized wings that sort of drooped everywhere. The very definition of gangly youth, adapted for dragonkind.

So he saw six of them gathered there, a few dozing off their meals, the rest guzzling the scraps with disquieting enthusiasm. Marcel had counted accurately, though Nurr had never really trusted Falen's perception around dragons themselves. He scraped together all that he knew of the dragon species and attempted to divine their separate breeds, in the murk and their lack of adult body growths. Two looked to be young Bloods, by the growing frills around their skulls and the greenish hue of their scales. One would one day be an Elder, by the tawny splotches on its pale wings. One was, quite unmistakably, a Frost; even the young ones were fiercely shaded white, indigo and black. The last pair were ordinary common brown-skins. Perhaps what was most interesting about them was that one of the brown-skins was the largest in the group, while the other was the smallest.

Corpses were strewn on the ground between them; remnants of sheep, cattle, even a horse; and Nurr was just in time to catch someone's arm disappearing down the Frost's quivering gullet. It seemed to eat slower than its brethren, given that there were still half-eaten bodies it guarded and attended to every few mouthfuls.

They were still speaking, and it seemed to Nurr that it was urgent; their voices bounced about the old stone and indistinct words made themselves clear to his ears; words he could hardly understand.

He backed carefully back down the hill and beckoned Raegim and Auril up to his position. They came, creeping as quietly as they dared to. "Voices down, not a sound," Nurr growled to them both as they rested flat on their stomachs staring down into the vale. "Even young Bloods have keen senses."

"Will they see us?" Auril breathed.

Nurr rolled his eyes. "If they could, this kind of compromises the mission, no? Now, what are they talking about?"

A great burst of clipped snarling sprang forth from the gathered dragons. "What the hell are they doing?" Nurr demanded.

"Laughing," Auril muttered. "They were muttering about how delectable they found mortal flesh…ghastly brutes…one joked about how we tend to fight back."

"They didn't name us?"

"The Order? No, we're still a phantom to them, fortunately…" Auril seemed hardly timid. He listened intently, forming the sentences under his tongue. Nurr was resigned to watch. Raegim's eyes were glued to the Frost slowly devouring its prey. It had not participated in the bout of its kindred's mirth.

Dialogue went on, and within moments they were laughing again. "The smallest one warned that we can be fearsome if we must be," Auril hissed, "and one of the others jeered at it…"

"Just mimic their dialogue directly," Nurr hissed. "I'll find out who's talking to who."

So with Auril's whispered drone on the edge of his hearing, Nurr searched among the wyrms, looking for the moving jaws, the glittering eyes, the twisted expressions upon their faces. The laughter subsided and it was the smallest brown-skin that spoke next, in sharp retort to its tormentor.

Through its distant spit, Auril translated flawlessly: "Don't mock me, unspeakable! Was a mortal not foretold to destroy us all?"

Nurr's ears pricked. "Dragonborn?" Raegim breathed, who was listening just as intently. "But isn't he…?"

"Shh," Nurr chastised her.

One of the Bloods answered, kinking its long throat. Even its growl was mocking. "That mortal is now a pawn of the Firstborn. Faithful, too. I only wonder why Master Alduin kept him so long. Perhaps he delights in a pet."

The other wyrms bellowed with laughter. The smallest snapped its wings in an indignant fashion.

It was at this point the Frost's head jerked up. Its hiss was long, frigid and bitter, and Nurr marveled at how Auril managed to discern anything the thing had said: "Mind your tongue, outspoken. I have heard that Master Alduin treats Joorpaalrah as an equal, and there is no equal to the Firstborn, our Elder of Ancient Eldest. I have heard that he has given that 'mortal' secrets beyond our comprehension. Insidious powers and gifts that resonate with his soul…"

The Blood made a mixed sound somewhere between a bark and a sneeze, apparently which was equal to, "Bah!" Its rumbled response was swiftly unraveled by Auril's quick mind. "A mortal body that bears an immortal spirit…it is a blasphemy upon our noble race!"

The young Elder dragon interrupted, snarling eagerly, "He was to be our greatest fear, our hunter to the end. It was prudent that Master Alduin turned him to our cause."

 _There's too much talking about those infamous two for my liking,_ Nurr frowned. _What in Oblivion have those scaled bats been up to?_

"Have you seen him, the one mortals name the Dread?" the other Blood inquired of the Frost, sliding down its perch a little.

The largest brown-skinned wyrm answered its Blood counterpart: "Dread him they should, for he was once a man; pale softskin meat, like the meal we enjoyed just now. But when Master Alduin named the so-called Dragonborn, he left mortality behind. He ascended, my brothers, into our brotherhood itself!"

Nurr stiffened. _This conversation has become quite interesting…_

"What do they mean?" Raegim whispered. Nurr motioned her to be silent. Hastily she obeyed.

The response was sharp and self-assured, and came from the first Blood: "Don't be ridiculous. No mortal would dare to."

The Frost raised its head again, effortlessly commanding the attention of all. "Joorpaalrah bears a dragon's name, and a dragon's soul. It must not have taken him long to shed his mortal flesh and assume the wings of one of us. Think. He is older than any of us. Imagine the power that sleeps in his soul! Imagine it!"

A short silence followed, in which Auril recollected himself. The man's lips had moved so fast it was almost as if he were speaking through the dragons themselves. No wonder Rendal had dispatched this acolyte for an eavesdropping.

The young Elder broke the quiet first. "I can almost taste it."

The Frost turned to it. "Undoubtedly many others have also. Yet all who have tried have failed."

The largest brown-skin appeared to cough, but Auril translated it as an echo: "Failed?"

The Frost turned an imperious eye upon its brethren. "Yes—and each failure makes him stronger. It pleases our Master. That is why he does not kill him."

The first Blood appeared daunted by the Frost's certainty. Head weaving, it spat a furious response. "How do you know this? You are as young as any of us!"

The Frost's answer was long and poetic. "Clearly cleverer than you, fool-mind. Together our Master and Joorpaalrah conquer this world many times over. The Firstborn did not succeed in the First Quelling. Mortals defeated him. Even before our brethren were restored from the death slumber our Master and Joorpaalrah completed the Second Quelling, and assured our sovereignty over all."

The second Blood protested. "It was not hard. They are only mortals."

"Mere mortals defeated him once," offered the Elder wyrm, which appeared ambiguous in the debate.

"Mere mortals make good feasting!" the largest brown-skin added, with another rattling bout of mirth.

The Frost arched its throat and spoke again. "They are only mortals indeed, and they were reminded of it in the Second Quelling. Such was our victory that the Eldest decreed the females to breed. We are the new generation of power, my brothers. We must ensure to prove our strength for when Master Alduin returns from the south. We shall be the first to bow our wing to him."

Nurr divined the meaning clearly enough. _So these damned sprats are flying about trying to curry favour with their overlord? That's all there is to it? All my gods…what else was there to expect? Damn loyalists…_

The smallest brown-skin appeared to have misgivings of this idea. "He will not take us seriously," translated Auril. "He will see us as weak and stupid."

Every movement radiating smugness, the first Blood turned and told it, "Not if we conquer what the Eldest could not."

"Eldest?" Raegim asked.

"The generation of dragons that remember the Dragon Wars," Auril said swiftly, "now hush!" He concentrated on the next speaker, the second Blood. "The stone den of craven-hearted mortals will quake in our rising Voice!"

Nurr snorted. "Markarth, no doubt," he muttered to himself.

The first Blood published a short speech as poetic as the Frost's. "The Eldest of us will bend their wings to us one day, we shall ensure that. The more we feed, the greater we'll grow. Mortals breed so quickly, and there are so many of them. We will grow quickly on their bones."

The Frost snapped and snarled, and it seemed to Nurr its tone had soured.

"Not quickly enough. Master Alduin comes on his great black wings, and they darken the frigid mountains between the Elder Land and the scavenged south. His Ancient Eldest gather there. We cannot outgrow what we cannot outfly." Then Auril froze, as though the translated sentences had at last relayed upon him their meaning. His face drained of blood.

"What is it?" Nurr asked, impatient; the creatures were at it again, bickering as only wyrms could.

"Don't you see?" the acolyte whispered, trembling. "Do you not understand their motive? Not realize why they have commenced such scavenging and slaughtering _now_ , and not before?"

Nurr took a moment to untangle the riddle—and upon doing so, its realized impact was an equivalent of a slap in the face. Though unnecessary, he admitted his revelation aloud.

"Alduin is returning to Skyrim."

 **d|b**


	38. XXXVII - The Wind in the West

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

Perhaps Halling Greensmile had spoken true, in that his eyes were everywhere. Impossible as it seemed, Ross felt he'd seen one such pair, and he felt that same pair had followed him as he galloped back across the province and beneath the eerie moss-coated boughs of the greenwood.

The ride along the forest road was much shorter than Ross had anticipated. Only two days since crossing into _Stumgevild_ the southhold did he arrive in its sole settlement. Night had well and truly fallen, and the streets were quiet. Guards gave him knowing glances as they patrolled along the worn dirt paths, bearing blazing brands to fend the darkness away.

Ross was very much awake, despite having slept little throughout the return journey. He wanted to be well and truly out of this twisted forest before the sun had risen again.

Despite it almost being the middle of the night, the warden of the south was waiting for him. He was not sitting when Ross was permitted into the longhouse, but standing, his wizened eyes focused patiently on the door. It almost seemed to Ross that there was a peculiar smell in the air, one that he perceived as rather supernatural. It only enforced his suspicions that there was a particular reason Halling Greensmile had lost his fear of his draconic overlords.

"The message was sent, I take it," said Halling, unquestioningly.

Ross nodded. "A response, from your client," he added, brandishing the sealed letter.

"Ah, good." There appeared no surprise on the aging warden's grizzled face. He approached and took the letter, and tucked it safely in the folds of his cloak. "I trust you received compensation from our client?"

Ross nodded a second time. "Do you have any further need of my services?" It was only out of formality he asked.

Halling chuckled to that, as though it amused him. "It is done," he said, and turned back to his throne, into which he sank slowly. "Consequence or benefit, I await either or neither. You were gone for quite a time, freerider. You ran into trouble?"

Ross swallowed back a cynical response. "Trouble lurks in every shadow these days."

"Ah, a pity. But what would this world be without conflict?" The Greensmile gestured to the longhouse. "You are a welcome sight, freerider, but I trust you have other commitments now. The trees whisper of you, and of the trouble that stirs in _your_ shadow. Best leave us all be."

"Before I do, I have something I must ask."

"Oh?" His brow furrowed. "And what would that be?"

Ross had imagined numerous conversations that could follow to this question, but he had to know, in the case that he was ever to return to the greenwood. "Not a question, more like a request," he said. "Tell me about the Glenmoril Witches."

"Ahh." Halling's interest sharpened significantly. His eyes seemed to glitter. He thought a moment, then said, "Yes, the Witches. An ancient coven was said to reside here in the greenwood when it was still the forest of Falkreath. They predate the city. Deep dabblers of Earth Magic, they were. You know of Earth Magic, I trust?"

"I've heard some," Ross frowned. "Something about soul energy."

"Energy drawn from the souls of every living beast in this world," said the Greensmile. "The beasts are older than any man or mer, Imperial, and we tend to forget that. We are still very much a young race, while they are ancient, as ancient as dragons themselves. Dragons have long styled themselves children of the sky than of the earth, and so they pursue a different ancient magic, volatile and treacherous as are their hearts…so Earth Magic resonates best within the beasts of the earth.

"The Glenmoril Witches devoted themselves to the study and practice of Earth Magic. It is connection and communication across time, the young-spirited man to the eld-spirited beast. It is change. They tap into the source of the unending flow of this energy and as such are changed themselves. The greatest become one with the beast world. They may assume shapes that are not their own, drain the feeble energies that exist within the younger race, even allow themselves to be reformed by the magic's own will. They become vassals, they and their descendants born of a bloodline fused with the flow of earth and water, and so possess a vision of the natural world more refined and integral than the brash and foolish sight that blinds men and mer."

Ross suspected what was left unsaid. He remembered a speaking haggard raven that had dogged him since his journey's start, yet delivered due pay. He considered venturing that far in the conversation, and Halling studied him with an expression that almost dared him to do so. "I've heard that the animals in the greenwood are…most unusual," said Ross. "They are not wholly beast."

The warden chuckled.

"You're close, Ronus, _very_ close," he smiled. "Just as these trees have turned most bitter to the sky children, so have the animals grown in mind. Old magic exists here still. The flow of Earth Magic has strengthened over the past century. I spoke of change, did I not? Change occurs here, and all my people feel it. It is building, still builds. It demands release, freerider. I remind you, I was not born here. My daughter was, however."

"Daughter?" Ross asked.

"Indeed. She was a most beautiful creature. If I am bark she is the leaves, if I am the root then she is the topmost branch. She spent a generous childhood here." Halling smiled at his memories. "She was the soul of the greenwood, for no beast found ill in her, no tree sensed wickedness under her skin."

"Was she akin to Earth Magic, then?"

"A mystery. One would almost consider that. I like to believe so."

"But she is gone, then?"

"Gone? Aye, she is gone—to stone and brume, she is gone. I hear whispers, however. The forest is not so quick to forget its daughter. The trees' hearts are yet to beat for her. I would say, freerider, that she is gone to protect this forest still—for in stone and brume the sky children dominate, and if the wind is to speak truth, which it rarely does, she has lost her former fear of them. Earth Magic roots deeply in the stonehold as well, freerider. Such children of Earth Magic—hag and raven conjoined, and men with thorn'd hearts—existed there in a time past. Have a care when you ride there."

Ross scowled. "I haven't been to the stonehold for some years."

"Some years," Halling agreed somberly. "Nonetheless, have a care, freerider." There was knowing in his eyes. It certified Ross's suspicions about the bird, and what conclusions he'd drawn to the reason for the Greensmile's uncanniness.

He was not sorry to leave the longhouse behind. Ross considered riding for _Krosonjoor_ before the sun rose, but the forest felt more unfriendly in the starless darkness, and his horse was weary. He retired to the local inn to last out the night, and couldn't deny his relief as he sank into his hired bed, asleep at once. He ate lightly but well the coming morning, and shaking off the last of his tiredness, he saddled his refreshed mount and galloped from the greenwood.

Ross half-expected an unsightly raven to appear at some point on his path, though he saw not a feather of it as the sun passed its height. He was warmly welcomed in _Krosonjoor_ , which was a warmly welcome sight on its own, and both rider and steed rejoiced at the view of the sky and the touch of the wind once more. They collected provisions and prepared themselves for the next part of their journey, one which Ross considered with great caution and many misgivings.

He had not been to the stonehold for two, near three years; his work had always kept him everywhere but there, for the west was infested with dragons. Freeriders had their work cut out for them if they dared to venture into the murky highlands. It was a treacherous land, for the threat of dragons was realized more greatly there than anywhere else in the province.

Ross had gone there several times in his many years of service, and still he hesitated upon entering. There was only one way to travel through the stonehold, and that was to follow the road; the jagged cliffs and stones could not be scaled by horses, and the rivers cutting great gorges through the hold could not be followed. On the stone road, there was nowhere to hide and only two ways to go, forward or back; Ross hated the vulnerability of it. The highlands were misty, and sometimes it was thick enough to shroud the ground from sharp sky eyes, but that was the only cover that could be offered. Horse hooves clicked loudly on cobblestones, though. If they could not be seen, undoubtedly they could be heard.

But Ross remembered the Nord who'd served the dragons, who'd been undoubtedly tortured and killed by his own kinsmen, whose package the freerider bore and vowed to carry to his waiting wife. He hardened his heart and rolled up his map.

His route was planned in his head, and though travelling in the day was dangerous, Ross did so anyway, keeping one eye on the sky and a hand on his crossbow. Hours slipped by and the day cooled, until night settled vast black wings over the land. Ross pushed on, determined to make the most of the dusk hours, until the very last of the sunlight faded, and he made camp on the fringe of _Stumgevild_ and _Hilgevild_ —twisted spires of trees on one side of him, lush golden plains on the other. The horizon was ridged with the distant peaks of _Golgevild_ beyond. Dragonsong had faded with the sun, and to the melancholy cries of wolves Ross slipped into a feverish slumber.

He woke before the moons had set. Rain was beginning to fall as he tacked his horse, mounted, and resumed his travels. Despite the dragons' undisputed dominance in the stonehold, there were several villages and hamlets nestled comfortably in the cliffs, where the people worked quietly and cautiously, wise in the ways of evading their predators. Ross had originally intended to ride for one such town, _Teylaassum_ , but despite the hounding weather he made good time, and by the time he reached the crossroads he instead rode northwest to Eagle's Rest, only a half day's gallop from its neighbour. Its ale, he'd heard, was quite good.

The travelling melody hummed through his idle mind, which he sang quietly and to himself.

 _Yonder, the world at my feet;  
Star light high.  
Dragonsong pervades my mind,  
Horizons beckon I._

 _Longer the waypath winds on;  
Star bright sigh.  
The world is lonesome as am I,  
To wander till I die._

There were more verses, but for now he couldn't remember them.

The rain thickened as the day waned in strength, to Ross's relief. Stone towered above him, and the shoes of his cantering mount made a clamour upon the cobbles, but the downfall and general murkiness of a storm drowned sound, scent and sight. There could have been dragons circling above, and he would have been invisible to them. It grew colder, and he shivered, huddling into his sodden clothes as his horse slowed his gait to navigate the slick road more carefully. The day faded early as the clouds displayed their intentions to continue for most of the night.

There was just enough light left for Ross to locate the village. Eagle's Rest unfolded around him, and he smiled, gladdened at the sight of it. It was a quaint and quiet little place, constructed on a small rise in the shadow of a natural overhang. Smoke whistled cheerfully from numerous chimneys. Livestock bleated miserably from where they huddled in their stalls. Interested townsfolk halted and stared as he trotted past, then turned to one another and whispered.

Their excitement puzzled Ross. It felt different to the kind he was usually greeted with. He slid from the saddle, and his boots sank deep into gritty mud.

Heavy footsteps alerted him, marching in soldierly formation. Ross turned cautiously, to be greeted with the sight of four armour-clad individuals who wore less than pleased expressions on their faces. Unsettled, he tightened his grip on his horse's reins and resisted the temptation to draw his crossbow.

"Name?" one demanded, in the harsh rasp of a dragonman.

Ross looked into each their eyes, then gestured meaningfully to his pin. "I mean no trouble here. Just passing through."

"Hmph," a woman scowled, folding her muscled arms. "Heard that one before."

"Who're you for, freerider?" the first fellow demanded.

"A widow in… _Frilingul_." Ross very nearly said _Markarth_ , and chastised himself fiercely for his near-blunder. _Spent too long with those Raiders…_

"Too many widows in _Frilingul_ ," said a third dragonman irritably, almost to himself, until he looked at Ross hard and remarked, "The city's not here, you know. Keep moving."

"It's too late to continue," Ross reasoned, vaguely puzzled at their persisting hostility.

"Wait one damned moment." In a particularly daunting manner, the fourth, who'd been yet to speak until then, approached with a hand wrapped firmly around her axe. "Let me see your face, Imperial."

Her tone seemed darkly suggesting, as if she knew something he didn't. It appeared to be the case, as Ross was nothing but bewildered as he obligingly lowered his hood.

She scrutinized his countenance long and hard, then snorted and stepped back.

"Not him."

"Doesn't mean he ain't one of them," one of them muttered.

Ross turned sharply. "One of whom?"

"None of your concern, freerider." The soul of authority, the first dragonman to speak spoke again. "You'll spend a night here and be on your way at dawn's first light, will you?"

"That is my intention, yes."

"Good. We'll make sure you keep to your 'intention'. We'll also make sure that you arrive safely in _Frilingul_. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you and your precious message before you deliver it." There was not a trace of humour in the soldier's voice. Ross didn't know what to make of it. He also disliked the way the other man and the woman who'd demanded he show her his face promptly stepped forward on an unspoken command. It wasn't out of good will, any of this.

Ross thought about his interrogation as he stabled his horse and made his way into the tavern, his shadow dogged by his watchers. The sudden sight of dragonmen in almost every corner further astonished him. The last time he had been here, there'd barely been a mortal servant of the dragon cause in sight. He was starkly reminded of stories he'd heard of happenings in this hold—dragons dying in their lairs, disappearing from the skies. Perhaps they were hunting this rogue slayer?

He deliberately seated himself at a table of gossip, where his questions could be answered by eager townspeople. They clustered around him, prompting his unwanted guards to position themselves at a table by the door, occasionally glowering in his direction over rims of cups. Ross turned his back to them.

"Eagle's Rest is not what I remember it."

"Nothing is anymore," a farmer grunted, scratching at his mead-soaked beard.

"I refer to the unusual presence of the soldiers."

"Patrols used to be common enough, though an unfriendly sight," said the farmer's daughter, nervously, "but something happened, a bar brawl, I think. Whatever it was, there's been dragonmen permanently stationed in our town. They interrogate any and every traveler vigorously. Think they're looking for someone…"

"Fugitive," grunted a miner.

"Fugitive?" Ross frowned.

"Obviously," said the miner, "who else? Knew that cat was trouble…"

Further puzzled, Ross turned beseechingly to the forthcoming farmer's daughter. "There used to be a regular at the Troll's Tankard," she explained, "a Khajiit man—er, tom—no, man—you call male Khajiit men, right? Or don't you? Never mind; he looked like a mercenary but we never thought much of him. He always got drunk. Twice he threw up over the counter. I swear he was trying to drown himself, not just his sorrows in the cup."

"Just get on with the story, girl," her father grumbled impatiently.

The girl blushed. "Sorry! So, he used to come here a lot. Never said where, just did. His friend came by as well, mostly to drag him out of the inn and to pay the innkeep her due. Then they killed three dragonmen in a vicious brawl a month or so ago! Killed! I mean, I guessed they were mercenaries, but…but they were _deadly_ …there was blood all over the floor, and the bodies…" She shuddered noisily.

"And they haven't been seen since," the farmer concluded. "Dragonmen have shown up after that, though. Undoubtedly they're looking for those two, and no matter what we tell them, they're never satisfied. They've never told us who they're looking for, but we're free to guess. It's pretty obvious."

"Fugitives," the miner grunted. "Who else would take up arms against a dragonman? Madmen. Madmen with a death wish."

"You haven't seen any Khajiit folk in your travels, freerider?" the daughter asked breathlessly.

Ross shook his head. "Not of late, no." Khajiit were not commonly found in Skyrim. They preferred to cling close to their ancestral lands of sand and jungles, even if it burned. Argonians were more common, which Ross had always found intriguing. Their derelict wet marshlands made good shelter against a dragon's wrath, yet so many of the lizard folk had devoted themselves to the dragon cause. They were among the first of the races of Tamriel to pledge allegiance to the World-Eater and the Dread. Most believed it to have been out of cowardice. Ross hesitated to judge.

"Can't trust 'em, any of 'em beast-races," the farmer growled. "Causing trouble in all degrees, whether they're fighting dragonmen or fighting _as_ dragonmen. Damned traitors to Tamriel, the lot of them."

"Hush!" his daughter hissed, with a furtive glance at the surrounding tables. "Hush, you could lose your tongue to that—or worse!"

"Sorry, darling. Ale goin' to my head."

Ross drank more sparingly than before.

"I've heard rumours," he suggested tentatively, and caught all three pairs of ears. "I've heard rumours that dragons…that something is happening to them. Unfortunate happenings."

"Believe them," the farmer hissed. "Dragons populate this gods-forsaken hold but they sure ain't safe."

"True," the miner muttered.

"Dead in their lairs," the daughter whispered, "or strewn across the highlands, as if they've been shot down or dragged from the sky. The soldiers say the dragons are common to fight among each other but that often, that frequently? And don't dragons eat their dead? I heard they eat their dead."

"Don't be stupid, girl," her father grumbled, "dragons devour one another's souls."

"Heard that was only _him_ ," the miner snorted, "the fellow the gods promised."

"Got a dragon soul, doesn't he?" the farmer retorted. "And a dragon's foul black heart, come to think of it. Dragons devour one another's souls. Heard it from my da. He saw it once, he saw a giant horror's skeleton still steamin', saw a hulkin' brute stealing away to the sky still aglow!"

"So it's true, then?" Ross persisted, fascinated. "Dragons are dying in the stonehold?"

"So it seems," the daughter smiled. "Someone's tryin' to be a hero again! The good kind! Maybe the gods…"

"Ah don't start that again, lass," her father groused.

Indignantly, she answered, "I'm allowed to believe, aren't I? Believe that there're heroes again, that the gods have sent another—"

"Hush it up," the miner snapped. "And no, that's ridiculous. Ain't ever happening. The Dread was the Last and the Last he'll be. Only he can kill the goddamned World-Eater. But that's not going to happen anytime soon. So stop hopin' and start livin' like we're meant to now. No more stories, child." His voice softened somberly. "No more heroes, for any of us."

Ross contemplated them more thoughtfully than before. He looked back at his watchers. They were engrossed in a little conversation of their own. With a wry smile, he turned to the three villagers—to the farmer's daughter in particular, who seemed downcast and quiet.

"I repeat what I hear," he murmured, "and I've heard the most fascinating tales."

They were interested. "What haven't we heard yet, freerider?" the farmer inquired.

"There's a curious wind in the air, my friends, whispering in the east. I've been told they are the winds of war." They exchanged shocked expressions, and Ross almost grinned. "Something tells me that men aren't yet so subjugated as we're led to believe. Personally I think them mad, but there's some logic to it. Madness is the last thing the dragons would expect."

He drained the last of his drink and left the villagers to draw their own conclusions.

 **d|b**


	39. XXXVIII - Pilgrim of Purpose

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

"Welcome to the Pilgrim's Lodge, good sir," the bartender greeted with disquieting pleasantness. "If it's a room you're after, you're in most excellent luck; the beds have just been refreshed. You'd be looking for a place to last out the cold bitter night, friend?"

"In a while," said Pyrus, coolly. "Your food is passable?"

"Passable? Delectable, I believe is what you meant! Have a seat, good sir, and my darling wife shall soon be by to offer you the finest we have to offer!"

"Thank you."

Pyrus had almost forgotten why he disliked travelling. Now he was starkly reminded of it. Innkeepers were the worst. They all had different philosophies on how the world should be perceived, ranging from the mordant-minded to the cringe-worthy cheerful. This one was undoubtedly the latter, and intruded most painfully on his contemplations. He gladly retreated to an empty table, and with his back to the central fire, sat and rearranged his thoughts.

The interested stares sent his way by the locals, who all obeyed universal Skyrim law and congregated in the local tavern each evenfall, gradually waned, their attention returning to a pretty little elven bard strumming her lyre, singing gently in a corner. Pyrus glowered the last few gapers off, scratching irritably at the stubble on his chin—traversing the province had granted him little time to shave—and lowered his hand to rest upon his satchel, which bulged. Feverishly he pushed its flap lower, tightened the already straining straps, then swung the bag onto his lap so his body might shield it from any persisting onlookers. The subject of his travel was almost too big to fit.

Energy simmered in his veins, and his fingertips flushed with heat. Pyrus exhaled slowly, then permitted himself a peek. Pushing himself on a journey across the province had paid off, most wondrously. He could still hardly believe his luck.

He'd never killed any man before, but those bandits had been lower than beasts. He had no qualms of destroying them. _Not if it supplements,_ Pyrus smiled, _and how it has._ A treasure beyond price…and all that remained was how to make it function.

He could not wait to examine it.

In solitude, and out of the wilds, Pyrus could peacefully relive his finding, and what had happened to earn it. Fire…he _had_ been fire then, and still he marveled at ability he did not even know slept in him. It had felt right to, and he had not denied the need to exert the building fury, channeled into the hottest flame. The agony of his burns had been forgotten—all he knew was the need _to_ burn, to burn all that confronted him. Grown men had turned to ash. Even fireside-tale monsters had fled from him. Pyrus had been astonished to discover for himself that werewolves were no myth, but that seemed a dismissive discovery compared to what he had won from the undeserving enemy.

But he could not study it here, so until then he would reflect upon how he had behaved.

 _I was what I dreamed I could be. Fire in the flesh._ Pyrus smiled, drunk on his own success. _Even Vylornar would have feared me then._ It had required no thought. It was natural. It occurred to him suddenly that that was what dragons must feel like with their Voice, to summon and become what men believed impossible. This was magic at its most phenomenal. Pyrus could have written a paper of the experience.

He had to remember it perfectly, and somehow. He had to remember how he had achieved such instinctive mastery. No thought was needed, nothing but action, but will. That was the level of attainment he'd been seeking since his first day at the College.

 _I found it…I had a glimpse of it…and it is gone again._ His burns troubled him, his body throbbed with exhaustion, and Pyrus's hatred of the world had rekindled in his spirit; but above all he despised himself in his crippled state. He had been strong in his quest; and now that his quest was over, seemingly, he was a shell again. The wick-borne flame across the table taunted him. His knowledge of restoration magic was little, and he did not trust himself to play candlefingers until he had rediscovered what it meant to be…to be what he had been.

 _It needs a name, if I am to remember such a sensation._

"So, what'd you like?"

Pyrus jumped at the unwelcome intrusion and swore. He nearly snapped, then caught himself and turned with thin patience to the source of the interruption. Did outsiders have to be so pesky?

"Yes?"

"What you want to eat?" asked the dumpy scraggly-haired woman, wiping her hands on a stained apron. "We've roast anythin' almost, or if you prefer soup…"

"Soup is fine, thank you."

"What kind?"

Pyrus swallowed back an irritated retort. "Surprise me."

"Drinks?"

Persistent, wasn't she? "Wine."

"What sort?"

"I don't know…the cheapest you've got."

"Cheapest's the local brew."

"Fine, whatever."

She shot him a reproachful look as she shuffled away. Pyrus allowed himself a moment to fume, then looked back into the murk of his corner, felt the welcome heat seep through his robes, and recalled the sensation when he had _been_ , not merely _conveyed_. He knew now he could do it, he could do _anything_ with fire…but like repressed memories it was sealed within him, and consciously he could not unlock it. He could not become it again, not willingly…

 _And before I am satisfied in that field,_ Pyrus vowed, _that is what I must be able to do._ For now all he could do was preserve the experience. It would make his most precious memory.

His recent readings surfaced suddenly in his mind—in particular, _The Principles of Destructive Magics_. Enlightened, Pyrus frantically thought back to the time not so long ago when he picked up that book. _It spoke of a mage's mentality bound to the power of his magic…and one's will. What did it say?_ He envisioned the paragraph in his head and quoted, _If the mind is not completely prepared to consciously and willingly destroy, for whatever reason of principle, then such magic resists; its nature bears no moral._

 _If I apply this theory to what occurred…one could almost conclude that my mind…that I was prepared, consciously prepared to willingly destroy. The magic did not resist. Its nature was mine to wield._ Elated, Pyrus drummed his tingling fingertips upon the table's surface. _A most peculiar feeling. It is how dragons must feel, and what Dragonlords ascend to become, unafraid to destroy. Was I afraid before?_ Instinctively he, or perhaps his wounded pride, disregarded the possibility of this suggestion. It was bad enough being demoted to a novice's level, but to be afraid of his own magic…he would not have it. He would never be afraid of his own capabilities.

 _But I cannot deny…_ Pyrus shuddered. _I cannot deny that my magic…my humbling opened my eyes to just what it could do…and I was afraid._ Because he had been without purpose, he told himself fiercely. Purpose was driving. His purpose had changed, and look what had happened; in a moment, he had been as powerful as his dreams. He'd seen his goal, he knew it was not all to folly, and such a need had awoken in him, as fierce as anything he'd known. _Desire_ , he thought wryly, _how maddening its sweet ambrosia is._

His hand returned to his satchel, and clutched it tight. Now that it was his, he would ascertain it would fall into no other hands…or come into awareness of any who might seek to take it from him.

It had been worth the agonizing journey, built on hope and punctuated with that wretched firesbane, from the frigid wastes of _Bromgevild_ to the golden meadows of the midhold. Such had been his haste to find the source of the traveller's tale that he'd ridden there. Pyrus was a poor horseman at best, and clumsy to say the least—how did those damnable freeriders live their lives in the saddle—not to mention that hiring the accursed animal would drain his meagre savings. _However_ , he placated himself gleefully, _the reward is priceless. My wealth is unprecedented so long as it is in my possession._

Again he touched it. His fingertips slipped into the satchel and traced the intricate, unfathomable designs and whorls upon the sleek shell, recalled its satisfying weight in his hands and how comfortable, how _right_ it felt to hold it. Pyrus smiled. Never in his life had he been happier than this.

"Soup, sir, an' wine." Unceremoniously the food was dumped in front of him.

In the safe seclusion beneath his hood, Pyrus pulled a face, then assumed a more neutral countenance before turning back to the innkeeper's wife. "Thank you."

"Yer room's there." She pointed. "Head inside when you're ready."

"Thank you."

"Holler if you need anything else."

"Thank you."

Finally she got the not-so-subtle message, and left. Pyrus exhaled the last of his simmering frustration. How in Nirn could commonfolk be so oafish?

 _Nords,_ he scowled, and more shamefully berated himself, _and I'm half a one, no matter how elven I appear._ It felt little better than a façade, the Altmer he'd almost come to appear as. But there was little he could do about blood. He could only concentrate on the fire.

He ate swiftly, eager to regain his solitude. He hadn't dared to examine his trophy long in the treachery of the wilderness. It was too far to return to the College, for Pyrus sensed that the mages there would take it from him, for fear of upsetting the dragons. _Cowards,_ he frowned. No, he would stay a night, and come to a decision of where next he would travel. It would require much deliberation. He did not want to continue counting on his low luck to keep him hidden from the dragons' hungry eyes.

He stood hurriedly and made his way into his allotted room for the night. The door he closed and barred firmly, and the general slur of tavern life waned. The Bosmeri bard's music was muted almost into silence, which quickly cleared Pyrus's head. He sat down on his bed, and with a final furtive glance at the doorway, set his satchel beside him, opened it, and withdrew his most sacred treasure.

The candlelight from his bedside table glistened over the dragon egg's gleaming shell. Captured once again by its beauty, Pyrus spent several thoughtless minutes just admiring it, examining it intently from all corners. It was so large he had to bear it in two careful hands, its weight kindling awe in the pits of his soul. Within the shells slept a newborn of a monster that would one day grow to terrorize the mortal lands, ruled beneath its immortal overlord. He had many names, Pyrus recalled idly, some of which were rather poetic. _Renderer of Rebirth,_ he thought, and snorted. _Renderer of Death is more accurate._ All dragons were capable of being that, he supposed, including this unhatched infant, which now rested in his power.

 _Which I will awaken,_ he vowed.

He'd decided this only now, quite spontaneously at that, and yet this revelation he perceived quite calmly, as though he'd always known, and just accepted it. What else to do with an egg but to hatch it?

Pyrus was no fool, however. He placed the thing on his lap and traced the designs upon the bluish surface, and frowned, _Dragons are intelligent beasts, as are men and mer. The hatchling will grow into a wyrm, and lose its innocence of the world, and become its own. It will know a dragon's insufferable pride and take its leave, loyalty owed only to the strongest._ There could be little hope of earning a dragon's loyalty to a mere mortal man…

His eyes widened. _Or is that wholly true?_

Vylornar's creature, Ausnahyol…Dragonlords had earned the Dread's respect and some level of authority in the dragon cause, similar to their long-dead predecessors, the Dragon Priests of the First Era—only in place of their legendary masks, Lords received a pendant infused with a mystical power that asserted their dominance over certain dragons. To earn it was a great privilege, for it was a symbol of the Dragonborn's esteem. Vylornar, the fourth of Alduin's first five, had also earned his Dragonlord's pendant, yet he was the most unusual of all present-day Dragonlords in the idea that rarely was he seen wearing it. Ausnahyol would bend his wing willingly to him, and so there was no honest need. None understood the peculiar bond that bound mer and dragon—none among the commons and servants, at least. Pyrus was certain only the inner circle of the World-Eater knew this secret at all, and understood it.

But the truth was plain enough; Ausnahyol was loyal to Vylornar.

 _Merely my wingsteed and friend in battle,_ the Dragonlord said again in the dark recesses of Pyrus's mind. Frustration simmered deep in the pits of his soul. _How did you accomplish that, to earn a dragon's loyalty in the way you did? How did you, a mere mortal, accomplish so much in the dragon cause alone?_

Bile stung his tongue. _The dragon cause…a treacherous realm of power and plot. No, I will have no play in that foul game._ Thoughtfully, his eyes lowered to the precious burden in his lap. _I achieved well enough on my own. I can continue to achieve. This is merely like discovering how to control the flame beyond the confines of my fingertips. Patience, practice, study. Yes, even study._

So how to hatch a dragon? How to assure its loyalty to him?

 _There is nothing in the College,_ Pyrus scowled, _nothing of use to me._ Certainly there were tomes and texts about the dragon's language, locations of ancient cairns and crypts where the Draugr—predecessors of today's dragonmen, many supposed—slumbered, and where old cities and strongholds of the long-deceased Dragon Cult were to be found. History, all of it. Nothing on the present, nothing on the creature's anatomy or its way of life, or any of the natural secrets that flowed through their veins. Undoubtedly, there would be nothing on its offspring.

 _This is their most closely guarded secret,_ Pyrus frowned. He'd read some tomes from the Arcanaeum, a few weeks before Vylornar's arrival in Winterhold, in the days when he was keen to fawn to the foul dragon-bound Altmer. One of which had discussed dragon behavior, and it had mentioned that there were no reported sightings of eggs or offspring at any time before and during the Dragon Wars. The beasts, apparently, just existed with no beginning, or had since the beginning, like their divine father. Pyrus had always found that hard to believe, though what did he know of the dragons?

He pressed his fingers into his temples and massaged them, growling at himself. _This brooding is taking me in circles!_ The College had the most complete library in the entirety of Tamriel and it could not help him—so who could?

Something clicked. Pyrus lifted his head, nervous excitement shivering in his gut. _Only they can._

Of course only they could. The raising of their new generations was something the dragons never shared. He doubted even the Dragonlords knew. No man or mer knew. Only those that had fathered and mothered such eggs and such hatchlings would be able to tell. Pyrus gripped the egg and quelled the excitement as quick as it came. "I cannot," he muttered aloud. "It is impossible…"

And yet…and yet…what he had _been_ , what had happened hours before…he once had considered that impossible as well…and look at what had happened. He had achieved the impossible, in pursuit of his purpose. The egg was his purpose. The dragon that slept inside was his to awaken. It remained his quest, his source of the knowledge he craved. Pyrus was strong when the egg was with him. He could not bear it to fall into any other hands or return into the possession of its kin. _It is mine,_ he thought fiercely, _and I determine to hatch it._

Now it was clear where his journey was going to take him—to where he could communicate with one of the creatures whose fire had once crippled him, but whose knowledge would now serve to strengthen him once more. Pyrus permitted a moment to savour his elation.

 _But where to find a dragon?_

He nearly laughed at himself. Such a foolish question. They were to be found everywhere.

 _Where to find one who will answer all I ask?_

That was harder. None would do so willingly.

Pyrus scowled. _That was never an option. I must fulfill this. I must._

Quite simply, he would have to do what many feared to; tread in the territory, search for one that would suffice and meet his needs. It might take months, or years. It might take a lifetime.

But he agreed with himself that there was no better place to start than the stonehold.

 _Dragons infest that place. You can practically see them crawling over every rock._ His mind sealed, his route planned, Pyrus placed the egg in his satchel and tucked it under his bed. Then he pulled it out and put it under his head, one hand pressed firmly on the travel-stained fabric. He could feel the beautiful imperfections of the shell through the canvas.

 _It is mine._ Strange peace swept through him. Pyrus clutched the bag tighter. He thought he could feel a faint tremor of life within the egg. _You are mine, little one,_ he smiled. _How we shall learn from one another…_

He was feeling awfully protective, in such a way he'd never known before. Pyrus got up and checked the door again. After a moment he shoved his chair under the handle, then crept back into bed and pulled the satchel against his stomach, wincing as his burns twinged in response to the foreign pressure.

Such weakness infuriated him. Hatred welled hard in Pyrus's heart.

 _I will achieve this—no matter how long it takes, if only to spite those that scorned me._ His hand crept into the bag and pressed on the shell, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. _But there is much more to this. There always is._

Pyrus slept deeply, and nothing further disturbed him that night.

 **d|b**


	40. XXXIX - Into the Wild

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

The current was lazy, slipping by almost melodically. Untroubled, it wound its way into the land, deeper and deeper, almost with no end. But everything had its end, its doom woven tight in the very foundations of its existence. It was desecration to the very flow of existence itself if there was no end, for without an end there could be no beginning.

Such philosophies circled gently in her mind, lighting and lifting as fleetingly as swallows. She had long lost track of how long this seemingly eternal river had borne her, and she did not care. She was at peace in this cool, dark world, unfathomed to her. Water was cleansing, that much she knew; water was nourishing, this she knew also; but water so _welcoming_ , bearing her as tenderly as a mother carried her pup. Its embrace soothed the raw inflammation adorning her skin, whatever one she wore; its constant, unceasing murmur drowning the distant screams, the roar of fire, even the sting of her own shame. She had failed spectacularly indeed.

Yet in this state of being, whatever one might call it, she no longer cared for such trifles.

She was content; she did not know if this was sleeping, or dreaming, or even if it was death; and again, she cared not for any of these things. She focused on the flow that pushed her up, the air always cool and there on her face, filling her lungs when she needed to draw breath. She was sodden and cold, but her bones welcomed it, and she found no fault with the temperature of her surroundings. The air felt colder than the water, if that was even possible.

Tiredly she registered a newfound wetness in the air, a change of scent, a telling of a new environment, but there was nothing else but water to her. The river, she knew it as, the river that into its embrace she had fallen. The clan was dead, and she could be as well, but she was away from ash and smoke. She was away from the artifact that undoubtedly had rendered this chaos. She was away, and away further. She drifted, and not only in body. Her mind wandered further and further away each time she let go. She wondered when it would cease in returning altogether. The silence would be oblivion.

Perhaps days and nights, perhaps whole months and years, slipped by; she knew not through her closed eyes. She only knew when she awoke, to the heat on her flesh, the touch of stones and the stench of moss and silt and grass; to the sight of a clouded sky, but a glimmer of the sun peeking through, washing her in silver warmth. Her mind sharpened then, and rooted permanently in her. She almost wished it hadn't. Her journey in the river had been one of peace, agony but a memory; and now there was pain, inside and out, and a sickly dizziness to her skull she could not ignore. Such revelations wearied her, and she slept once again, and did not wake until the moons were high in the sky.

Moonlight strengthened her, when nothing else would. She rolled onto her front, for the river had left her on her back; she pushed up with the palms of her woman hands, to mount her two woman feet, and collapsed. Her bones were brittle, delicate things. It sickened her, angered her, instilled terror in her pounding soul. She remembered plainly what had occurred, and animal instinct drove her back up, over and over, until she could stagger away.

She did not know where 'away' would lead her. It only led her out of earshot of the river, long out of its sight, and uphill. Stone smiled beneath her fingertips. Moss pillowed her violated skin, tingling and itching from raw red marks she knew would never heal. They were minimal, and hardly impairing—mere blemishes she cared not for—but it was the gnawing emptiness that persisted in her gut that scared her most. She hungered, and not in a way that strengthened her, that honed her senses and gave vigour to her limbs—no, she starved, when all will and life was sucked from her, breath by laboured breath. Claws drove deep between her lungs and tore her insides apart, until it became so bad she had to stop, she had to fall and lie down under the stars, cradling her gut and lamenting her struggle.

She could not feed off the rocks one by one she mounted, and though desperation drove her to swallow morsels of moss and bitter berries and even crawling insects, the lowliest of living creatures, it did nothing to placate the agony of hunger. The feeble nourishment granted her the will to keep climbing, but it was a precarious process, and one that entrapped her. One misstep, one look back, and it was over. She knew in her heart that if she fell again she would not rise. Fear drove her on when her body threatened to betray her. Fear of death, or fear of discovery. She knew these cliffs, the scents that clung to the underbrush, the sight of purple peaks against the night sky beyond. She knew these hunting grounds. The river had washed her far from the clan's home, and brought her to hers.

But the reality of returning to her rightful place in the world could not sustain her for long. She continued to climb, higher and higher. The cliffside would soon give way to vast meadows, canyons, dales, alpine woods. To reach paradise, she must suffer the spine of the mountains to reach her sanctuary, the highlands' heart.

Song surrounded her; the song of the wild, that of wind skimming the spires of stone, hissing through heather and juniper hedges, howling in the great expanse of air that swept down and across the midhold far, far beyond. The silence that followed such melodies was infinite and fantastic. The shriek of night-birds distilled the stillness. Then there came a much harsher cry, terrible in its beauty. It fascinated her, the sound. She had not heard anything like it. No such sound had escaped from the throat as she tore it, no such haunting cries had pervaded its hunt in the ice plains of the lonehold. She thought of its blood, warm and rich and sweet in her mouth, and the taste of its meat, exotic and peculiarly wonderful, and utterly emboldening. The memory was a memory, but it was enough to restore vigour to her, to dig her nails into each ledge, crack and crevasse, to drag herself higher from the ground, deeper into the territory. Fueled by her lust, by her purpose, unspoken but clear as day in her, she pushed on, determined not to fall, determined to exist. Her end was not this night.

It had been the fire that had purified it. Much as it had driven her away, it had opened her eyes, and her mind to reason, a concept she, the beast, barely understood. Common sense took precedence over her savage nature. It had been nothing but trouble. She could have accomplished nothing, even if she had succeeded in cracking the shell, in coaxing the little thing to waken. Wolf milk bound wolves, not immortal sky children. It would have betrayed them. She doubted her pack ever would have accepted it. What had seemed so certain once were not so any longer. Spending so long among the ephemeral humans had rendered her stupid and blind and deaf to truest instinct, the kind that hatched moths from their cocoons and inspired fledglings into flight. Hers had been as forgotten as her spirit. Now it was reminded, and conscious now of what she had been without it, she would not soon forget it.

Her hands trembled. She struggled. She devoted all energy into scaling a precipice that finally sapped her of all strength. She succeeded in climbing it, but her limbs were leaden, and she slipped and skidded, down over the rise, into a gully that yawned below her. She landed heavily, the wind thrown from her aching lungs, and for a little while there she lay, sprawled on the gritty grassy earth of her own country, despairing.

That was when the scent came to her. Rotting meat.

She saw something beyond. Smelt the festering flesh. Heard the faint buzz of flies. Imagined the flesh writhing with pale maggots. Dried blood, blackening meat…only a few yards beyond, and life in death was hers.

She dragged herself there, pushed herself to her knees, crawled on all fours as a woman to the carcass. It was eviscerated and so mangled she almost didn't recognize it. The antlers and size of it overall suggested a deer. The deep lacerations through its hide and jutting shards of bone, and the shattered state of what was left of it, suggested it had been victim to a dragon. The false hunter. It was untouched by its teeth, and she surmised it had been plucked from its place on the earth, and lifted into the predator's cloud-filled realm, and returned swiftly back to earth; the talons had loosed around it, and it had plunged to its death, from a height she could not conceive. It had been dead for days. It seethed with worms and vermin.

Yet she was so hungry she could overlook all of that.

Her valued pride was nothing now; she plunged both hands into the corpse and gorged herself, crunching larvae and whole insects between her teeth. The foul taste of decay seeped over her tongue but her agony banished all desire to retch. She could not afford to stop. It was her death if she did. She devoured every bite. Licked every cracked bone, sucked each one dry of rotting marrow. She even chewed the hairs. The plump maggots served as additional nutrition. The empty husk of a skeleton was all that remained within minutes, or hours; the moons had moved, but she did not know how far. Mist enveloped the highlands, sticky and relieving, as though to grant her blessed privacy in her ignobility.

She hungered still, as she always hungered, but the edge was taken, the pain subsided, and she washed the ill taste of long death from her mouth in the stagnant pool nearby, thick with clotted blood from the beast, whatever it had been. Her eyes cleared, her bones hardened, her limbs trembled with energy. She effortlessly sprang upright and adorned a feral smile. Much of this land she may have forgotten, but the trails worn down to dirt and clay by hunting parties of her pack were engraved hard as steel into her mind.

One she located within the hour, and barely an hour after that she feasted on warm and living prey.

The kill was made as a woman, and savoured by the wolf. She could climb much better than the wolf, creep across bough and through canopies, take her drowsing prey by surprise before they had a chance to flee. That was how she sated herself, and delighted in it. It tasted better than any grassland beast she'd fed upon for the past years. Every succulent mouthful she savoured, still as human, though she sensed she would not remain like this for long. The wolf grew stronger in her. It wanted release, and domination; and she was perfectly happy to let it.

Yet she held back, at first, for new thoughts were passing through her enlightened mind. The river's teachings remained stark in her, as well as all her accomplishments. She knew the answer to the alpha's request and riddle; and it had come so easily and plainly to her, it was almost laughable. How could she have possibly missed it before? They'd even said it, and no connection had been made, not even by Shirju, to whom she vowed to return and never to leave again. Now she knew, and she would tell not just Shirju, but all her pack, so they would know and they would know what next to do, to further their fledging war against their tormentors.

But both wolf and woman had succeeded in the riddle; she knew many things now, things she had not even realized before. Fire had woken her to the truth, and it tasted richer than the warm blood that lingered on her tongue. In a few fleeting heartbeats she finally understood why her alpha had sent her away, why he demanded balance between her two selves, unique as she was. _I embrace one and shun the other,_ she thought, _yet both serve me equally in purpose. I can do what they cannot; I can walk in two worlds, two worlds that dragons believe themselves supreme in both—I have two understandings of those foul creatures, and where brute strength fails, wisdom prevails. Yes, that is the answer—and so much more._ She laughed at herself, her voice carrying deep into the paling night. Dawn was soon to come. She left the remains and lunged for the earth, where she met it no longer as woman.

That was how the pack found her, as sun crept over the east; a small gathering of young and old, who remembered her scent and who knew her only in den tales. They cast wary eyes upon her. She had grown far greater than they recalled her, and quietly marveled in her size, her apparent strength, and the experience that glistened plainly in her gleaming eyes. She had seen and done much, her deeds apparent and paramount.

She asked to return to her alpha, and they took her there without complaint. Her authority over them was undisputed. She knew authority now, and found she delighted in the power it brought her. Those who gave loyalty to one another through the mother's binding milk would listen more readily to what she had to say. In this way, the pack was superior to the clan.

But there were elements of the clan that overshadowed the pack, but they were values that the pack was capable of learning. _This is what Shirju has wanted,_ she believed, deeply, assured in her accuracy. _He does now know it yet. None of the eight great packs do. But he tasked me with searching for a way to unify them—something, rather than someone. There is still so much he doesn't understand, however._ It was so blatantly obvious now she seethed with impatience. She could not believe how blind she had been to it before. Her discovery quelled the last of the misery of her losing the treasure she thought had been the key. Let it bring joy or suffering to its new bearer. She couldn't care less.

The Pack of the White Sun was soon revealed to her, and she to them; they exclaimed over her presence, some welcoming, others less so. All regarded her in astonishment and some level of terror. She towered over them all, even while on all fours. She held herself high, with the dignity that befit her unquestioned status, and placed herself in the centre of a fast-formed gathering of her pack.

Her alpha came to her then, surprised and almost hopeful at her presence.

" _You return_ ," he said.

She acknowledged this, and Shirju scowled, his lips curled into a snarl. " _Why? What has happened with your pack of two-feet prey?_ "

" _They are dead,_ " she answered.

Shirju sat. " _By your maw?_ "

" _By another. I escaped._ " Her victory, yet unspoken, elated her; and for the first time in her life, defiance resounded with growing clarity in her voice, as she faced her alpha. She refused to seat herself before him, as she had done in the past; she refused to perform all the necessary shows of respect as was expected of any wolf that faced his leader. The pack exchanged shocked responses to her audacity. It only brought her more savage pleasure.

" _And I have succeeded in the task you set for me,_ " she told him, in the tone of an equal. This furthered the pack's discomfort.

The alpha's response was guarded, at first. " _You have found a way to unite the packs, then?_ "

" _It is certain,_ az'raghal _._ "

" _You sound that way,_ " he noted, almost scornfully. " _So what is it that will unite eight great families of brethren, to one common purpose? It must be unprecedented if it is to work at all. You have found this, then?_ "

" _Yes._ " Sharpness snapped in her answer. " _Summon them,_ az'raghal _. Summon the sons and daughters of Lupa. They will hear what I have to say, and what I have to say to them will overshadow what prejudice they shall show at my presence. I promise you, our war shall not be fought alone—and before autumn has aged, a_ targhalis'raghal _shall be named to my offering._ "

The White Sun's uneasiness lingered, but her attention was devoted solely to Shirju's anticipated response. He bowed his head, lost in thought. It consumed him for several minutes. Then, as sunlight sent bright golden shafts into the glade, and the first rumbling cries of dragonsong filled the distant skies, his head lifted, his eyes burning bright as polished copper.

" _This task I trusted to you,_ shay'k-sh'aghar _,_ " he growled, " _and this gathering I entrust to you also. If we are to survive the wrath we have inspired from the_ krag-nalihr _with our recent doings, it is apparent unity is needed from all the great ancient brothers of ours. You will discuss with me your findings. Then they shall be called. A gathering of the great packs shall commence—in your name._ " Shirju stood and stared her hard and long. " _And be it on your blood and soul should you fail._ "

The hunter among hunters reared upon her hind legs, to tower above all her gathered kin, as morning cast her pelt in a fierce scarlet glow.

" _It will not fail._ "

And somewhere close by, Lupa was smiling.

 **d|b**

* * *

 **[A/N]: Gracious me, what _has_ Chase concluded? But now it is time for her to step aside for a time, for a new part of this novel has opened. Every character will face a journey and for now - not for good, but just for now - hers has ended.**

 **Hmm, speaking of journeys...I've uploaded something new you might enjoy upon The ShoutStream: ' Journey Mix: Skyrim'. I make art listening to 1 hour, 2 hour, etc Epic Music mixes and now I've made one for myself. It's a step back in time, for this video will retell, through music, the classic Skyrim storyline, beginning in the flames of Helgen to the final fight in Sovngarde. Seems almost fitting, since around this update Skyrim's fourth anniversary had sidled by...**

 **Have a listen and a looksee if you like - b** **ut don't forget to review, of course! :)**


	41. XXXX - The Phantom

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

The missive came that evening. The sight of it inspired cautious wonder from among the Blades, as they watched the stranger pass through their sacred halls. The message, carefully bound and sealed, was delivered into the hands of Grandmaster Emilyn herself, who accepted it with a stony expression, though those that knew her knew she was just as startled…or perhaps, just as fearful…as the rest of her Order.

She withdrew into her private quarters for a time, and within minutes she called for Jor and Rendal. The muttering grew louder and more urgent among the warriors present. Dark glares were sent the messenger's way. Rumour upon rumour developed. Most linked back to what the acolyte Auril had gleaned from the wyrms, a journey not three days old. Could it be coincidence? Was he a dragonman? He refused to say. The initiates became the most excited, hardly able to concentrate on anything else but the presence of the outsider in Sky Haven.

For more than an hour, that was how it was; the waiting, the guessing. At last Emilyn returned into the eyes of all. She shared a few low-spoken words with the messenger, who dipped his head and took his leave. She sent two of the Temple's guards for the day to assure the stranger was well on his way out of the Reach.

Then she went to summon Nurrkha'jay.

Nurr had heard of the messenger, of course, but taken only mild interest in its happenings. He saw Rendal leave the library, and guessed something had happened, only to be told by a passing acolyte who delighted all too much in Temple gossip. But what did it matter to him? He left the Temple leaders to sort the mess out and continued attempting to help Raegim with the report due in to the Archivist, a recap of her history lesson with him earlier that day. It turned out both she and her brother had been horrendously illiterate before they were brought here, but both were learning. Agalf was picking up on it faster than his little sister, though she was making steady progress.

It was a topic that held his attention slightly more than most, which was partially why he freely ventured into the library, an act quite unknown to him, in favour of assisting his apprentice with her bookwork, also something rather foreign. However, he made an exception with comparing the Dragon Priests of the Merethic Era with the Dragonlords of the Fifth Age; their similarities and differences, and why. It was always a good topic to revise over, even for a grown Blade, _especially_ with what they'd learned from the wyrms.

So Nurr did not appreciate the interruption, not even for the deeply somber expression Emilyn wore.

"You are needed, Nurrkha'jay," his Grandmaster informed him. "Come with me."

Nurr, just in time, located his civil tongue. "I'm doing the last thing you ordered me to do, you know," he answered, nodding to Raegim. "I don't see you pestering Lio every odd day. If this is about a lair raid or whatever else you have planned with dragons, quite frankly, I'm not interested. Get one of your more-than-capable slayers to handle it without me."

"It's more than that."

The solemnity of her response ended all frustration in him. It was a kind he had not heard since he'd been informed of Gelwin's death.

Attention sealed, Nurr rose slowly to his feet. "What's happened?"

"Alone, Nurrkha'jay." Emilyn's eyes lighted quickly on Raegim, watching with a worried expression she fought to conceal. "Alone," she added regrettably.

Raegim bowed her head.

Nurr sighed. "Fine, damn. I'll come."

Emilyn departed, and Nurr turned back. Raegim looked up.

"Keep going with that recount on the fall of Whiterun," Nurr advised her. "You're making good progress. Do not forget to mention the duel of Whitemane and Nordsbane. That was paramount to the city's destruction." That much of his history lessons he remembered, battles and fire.

Raegim looked as if she wanted to get up. "Nurrkha'jay, what…do you know…what's going on?"

"Not a clue." Nurr heaved another miserable sigh. "But it shouldn't take long." _I hope_.

He left her there in the library—the acolytes would probably aid her better, anyway—and traversed the halls of the Temple. His fellow Blades were attempting to look inconspicuous in the main hall, but as soon as he made for Emilyn's private quarters, where she and the other two seniors were awaiting him, the whispering grew louder. Nurr did not want to know what guesses circulated now through their minds.

He closed the door after him and stood before the three of them, arms folded. "So what's this about?"

To further his impeding sense of catastrophe, Jor looked at him almost with sympathy. "Tough news," he grunted.

"This evening, we received this," said Emilyn, and pushed to him the scroll of parchment that dominated her desktop. Nurr frowned at her before he took it, straightened out the yellowed paper, and read whatever had caused such upset in the harmony of the Temple.

He read, and understood.

He took the initiative and drew his own conclusions. "No," he growled, and suddenly revolted, or afraid, he threw the thing back. " _No!_ " he roared.

They'd expected this. Of course they had.

"Understand," said Emilyn softly, "that we are just as affected by this news."

"You're damn right it does." Nurr abandoned whatever formalities he'd brought into this accursed room. "You've agreed to this, haven't you? Now you want to dispose of, clearly, your most prestigious dragon killer. For this!" He made an obscene gesture at the rejected parchment. "For this bullshit!"

"Mind your tongue," Jor interjected sharply. "You still speak to your Grandmaster."

Seething, Nurr whirled on him. "You have nothing to say to this! Doubtless you've expressed your delight at it; how befitting, to rid yourself of me forever!"

"It won't be forever, Nurrkha'jay." Emilyn plucked the missive from the floor. "Only for as long as you're needed."

Nurr's laugh was mirthless and bitter. "Oh, for _that_ , they'll need all the help they can get. But it won't be mine. Or ours." He advanced furiously. "What in all sixteen cursed realms of Oblivion made you agree to this? Glory? Gold?"

"Neither." Emilyn's voice turned as hard as his. "Recent news interties with this. Very soon everything we've known will change. We must change with it. This fight has become ours now, that much is clear. If what the wyrms spoke of was true, then we will need to support this crusade. It remains a last chance at pushing through the dragons' oppression."

"No." Disgusted, Nurr turned away. "I have responsibilities here."

"It will not be forever, Nurrkha'jay."

"Gods damn you, it will be long enough!" Nurr bellowed. He let profound silence fill the room before he broke it with a snarl. "If you're determined to lose your senses over this fool's plight then lose them, but not through me." He turned for the door. "Find some other doomed Blade to support this doomed cause. Send my regards to the boy."

"There can be no other." The steel in Emilyn's words was enough to halt him.

"Do you not understand?" she pressed. "This is a dire day for us all, for you, for I, for everyone here. Know we did not decide this lightly. We can send no other in your place, Nurrkha'jay, because if we do then they are certain to die."

Nurr's ears flattened, and he swore. "Don't play that goddamned card."

He turned back, angry. "You know that's not fair."

"Fairness died with the heroes and the Fourth Age," Emilyn said coldly. "I'm being blunt. You know full well that what I've told you is the truth." She set the blighted paper down behind her and added more gently, "I would send no other, because I know that you will succeed. You will return to your apprentice, and to your life here. It is only for a time, for a year or two." She let all this sink through Nurr's fur before she continued, "That boy needs you. If his cause is to survive, he needs intelligence on his greatest enemy."

Nurr could feel the argument's tides turning on him. He glowered at Rendal. "Send one of your acolytes then. They can provide more than I can."

"False: dragons converge in the east," Jor rasped, his scarred face knit tight in a stubborn scowl. "They need someone to kill them. To show them how it's done, to renew their moral, whatever; the point is they've asked, they've paid, and we have chosen to send our soldier that befits Stormbear's needs." He put emphasis on the word _soldier_ , in yet another attempt to remind Nurr of his place—or maybe he was merely stating the obvious, in his usual tactless fashion.

It only fuelled the bitterness that surfaced again, blacker than before. "So I can put an arrow in the eyes of the dragons they've spat in, and the story has a happy ending?" he said scornfully. "There are no more happy endings, only life or death."

"That is the case," Rendal inputted softly. His wizened eyes trained hard upon Nurr's as he went on. "The Raiders may be young when set against the age of our Order, but they are old in their memories. There is much knowledge that the rest of the world has forgotten, that they preserve and put to use. When great strength fails, it is wisdom that wins wars. Even wars with _dov_ and _joorre_."

Nurr said nothing.

"You read yourself," Rendal murmured. "Dragons scour earth and sky for the child general that is Kaarn Stormbear. Their numbers grow by the year, but they cannot hope to match the dragons in brute strength. It is cunning that is needed in their case, if they are to succeed. They have asked for our greatest slayer to come in aid."

"They'd do better with the finest warrior," Nurr snarled.

"They didn't ask for a warrior, did they?" Jor said brusquely.

Another heavy silence fell between them all—and in the lull of the argument, Nurr became painfully aware that this had never been a fight he could win.

He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagged, and he turned once more. No protest followed him. The three behind him knew him well enough to know when he had surrendered.

But even as Nurr's hand rested upon the door, he hesitated. The consequences of this choice opened inside. For an instant, he thought he saw his fingertips shaking. Fear. It wasn't for himself. It was almost satisfying, and quite unlike anything he had felt since his blading.

He threw the question over his shoulder. "Why have me mentor the girl at all?"

There was a profound pause, before Emilyn answered. "The slayer's transcendence maddens his mind if left unchecked. You were losing yourself, Nurrkha'jay. To kill such ancient power so often, it will leave you empty when you no longer feel anything. But to know one untainted by the Dragonguard's curse, it brings them back, no matter how far they have gone."

Nurr didn't move, nor look back. Nostalgia thrummed in the dark forbidden corners of his mind, the memories he always drank away. He pictured Emilyn standing behind him, saw the sorrow written on her hard face as plainly as it sounded in her voice.

They shared knowledge of his greatest misery, and ever so gently, she reminded him of it.

Nurr blinked hard, and once, to banish the sting from his eyes, then took his leave.

No need for goodbyes, to anyone. He wanted to leave quietly. He proceeded straight to his quarters, found them mercifully empty. He tried not to look too much around at the great ancient temple he'd called home for the better part of sixteen years. His chest under his bed was dragged free and yielded at his touch. It had to do this frequently. It was where he kept his travelling gear, and he travelled too often to his liking.

He loosed the straps, stuffed a few changes of clothes inside, and found his heavy winter cloak, dark emerald as elder pine, folded neatly at the foot of his chest. He grabbed it up, and something clanked at the bottom, disturbed.

The dim light gleamed off a glimpse of a polished edge, inscribed with runes.

Nurr didn't want to linger, but linger he did for this. He placed his hand into the chest, felt the unused hilt, the edge he always took care to keep sharp. Then reality returned, and angrily he jerked away. Let the bloody blade stay. It'd just encumber him.

His armour hung from a mannequin, which stood beside his bed. Nurr wasted no time. Over his comfort clothes he donned his chestpiece, pulled on his greaves, fastened his boots. He'd finished one, and realized that he wasn't as alone as he'd thought.

He didn't need to look up to know who it was. "Leave me, Lio."

The formerly soundless figure sighed deeply and sauntered over. "The talk didn't go well, I take it."

Nurr didn't pause. "You can ask Emilyn what damn escapade she's sent me on now." He pulled on his other boot.

Lio came closer. "I've heard nothing about another outing."

"It's rather spontaneous."

"The messenger." It had all come clear to him at last. "Whatever it was, you're the response."

Nurr let his silence speak for itself. He got up off the edge of his bed and donned his gauntlets.

"What about Raegim?"

Nurr slowed. He still refused to meet his Blade Brother's eyes, for suddenly they ached again. Internally he struggled for some answer, and found none better than the instinctive response that rested upon his tongue. "I don't know."

Lio's hand pressed upon his shoulder, forcing him to meet gazes. Almost wondrously, Lio realized, "You're afraid."

"Not afraid." Nurr jerked away. "Uncertain. There is a difference."

"A minor one. It makes no difference to me. Nurr…" Yet the Imperial could think of nothing to say. His protest slid eloquently into mindful silence. Nurr flicked his eyes up, let his expression tell the inevitable, the unchangeable; his gauntlets equipped, he pulled on his quiver and bags, slung the bow over that, and proceeded to adorn the heavy green cloak with the heavy brass fastenings. Designed to outlast anything Skyrim's volatile weather had to throw at anyone.

"This is it, then?" Lio asked. "You're just going to leave, without saying goodbye to anyone?"

"I'm not very sociable, as a rule."

"So not even to me, then."

"No." Nurr snorted with absurd laughter. "Farewells are foolish gestures. No need to get any more dramatic than it already has."

Lio shook his head, troubled. "At least let me walk you to the stables."

"Gods, no. I can find my own bloody way there."

"Then, at the very least, tell me when you'll be back."

Nurr's ears pricked in curiosity. Was that a plea? If not, it was dangerously close to becoming one.

He could think of nothing to say. He held the questioning stare, then strode to the doorway.

"Only Raegim will want to know." Again, the girl's name halted him. Nurr closed his eyes, swore softly, heard Lio adjust his position behind him, pictured his arms folded sternly. "We may be phantoms to those outside the Temple, Dark Moon, but we will not be phantoms to each other."

This was true. Undeniably, it was true.

Nurr looked back, fighting down these feelings he knew and disliked. Lio's stance was exactly as he had pictured it. He could not bring himself to answer the question, or acknowledge the words spoken. "Yes," he hissed. "Yes, I am afraid."

Lio's face fell. "Need I tell you why?" Nurr pressed coldly. "Where I go is a territory unfamiliar to me. What I will do requires fortitude unknown to me. Who I will serve is a total stranger to me. What war I will fight cannot be won. Not against Alduin. Not against the Dread. The enemy is grown too great.

"Emilyn sends me still, and the both of us know the real reason why. Not about payment or a soldier's duty, not about anything that was discussed in the war room with Jor and Rendal standing by. She knows this doom as well as I—but she sends me, because she knows that I might come back. The Khajiit have grown rare since the Fifth Age's come. We must be all but ghosts to the dragons now."

Nurr wondered how he must have seemed to Lio in that moment. He certainly didn't feel like himself.

"Lio," he said heavily, "just promise me that you will look after Raegim."

Lio's brow twisted. "You aren't going to tell her yourself." No question.

"No." No doubt. "She's in the library."

Then there was nothing more to say. Nurr nodded, and took his leave.

The Temple was quiet now all the excitement had subsided. There were several gathering for dinner in the great hall. Nurr could hear the slur of their voices, raised in the usual clamour that followed mealtime. He had to pass on its outskirts to get to the kitchens, and eventually to the door that led into the ruins beyond, but he took care to keep to the shadows, so as to steal past unnoticed. The kitchen was empty, mercifully, and he was in and out before the cooks returned.

He passed by the hall again. The longtable was full. Nurr told himself he wouldn't linger, but he did, of course. He couldn't help it. He stared at the Order and put names with faces. Then he saw Banviel. She was with Rogghart, of course—where else were those two now, but together?—and they were laughing at something witty Helena, across the table, had told them. Probably someone's first lair raid that had gone horribly wrong. No doubt in a few years the new generation of slayers would be taking amusement at Banviel's acrobatic distraction to Lotjoorkriid. Kierra was performing a series of hand movements to Marcel; undoubtedly another lesson in the art of swinging a sword. Screema was skillfully deviating between sips of wine and memorizing text from his latest tome. Initiates young and old were exchanging personal work discoveries. Technically that wasn't allowed, but nobody cared. Nurr half-expected Raegim to be there, but wasn't too surprised when he saw that she wasn't. The girl often became so obsessed in her literate studies that she tended to miss meals.

He let the memory sear itself into his mind before he departed Sky Haven.

Night air filled the ruins outside, mingled with the smell of torch smoke. Nurr climbed down the path and to the stables, where he shouted for Slag. The Orc lad trotted over, clearly having expected him; a large brown-black destrier was saddled and readied for travel.

"Grand-lady warned me," he grinned, patting the animal's neck. "Good one for you, this fella. Get you right and over to the steam-stone-lands or wherever, no time."

"Good." Nurr looked it over, though he was no expert at this initiate's line of work. He idly checked various bits of the harness as Slag returned to his charges. Nurr was grateful that the Orc lad was a kid to the point and short of words, whatever the situation might be. He took the horse's reins, but not a step had been made when he heard rapid footsteps approaching him—that bore the stride of a child.

 _Raegim_.

Of course she'd come. She'd grown so much since she'd come to the Temple. He really ought not to have tried evading her. Nurr braced himself and turned, and there she was, and she was carrying something he tried very hard not to see it as what he thought it was.

"You should have said," she protested, with quiet fierceness.

Nurr sighed. "Go back. This time you aren't coming."

"I know." Her unhesitant response surprised him, vaguely. Weren't most girls her age the clingy don't-leave-me sort? "But I want to know why," Raegim went on, her tone unyielding. "Why has Grandmaster Emilyn sent you away?"

What to answer with? Nurr conceived a spiteful response, then recollected himself. That was inappropriate for any child's ears. "Sometimes our dragonhunts take us far across the province," he said instead, as politely as he could manage, though he doubted he managed to keep all the bitterness out of his voice. "Alone."

Raegim pushed on. "But why now? You were called away only hours before!"

Nurr grimaced. _Set the example, no matter how much you despise it._ "I'm needed elsewhere, urgently," he answered. "I must hasten from one place to another. A delightful duty, I know, but in light of recent events the time for safe travel, in light of what is surely to come—or return—to this land, is nearing an end."

"Will you return?"

Nurr hesitated. _At last I have remembered, on my own, that which I constantly forget,_ he thought. _There is no telling of return whenever we set foot outside our haven._ It felt so much different now. He saw this truth with very different eyes. Had mentoring this child really changed him so?

 _To bring me back._ He released the reins and approached her. _To remind me that a killer is not the only thing I have become._

"Nothing is certain as it was, child," he rasped, taking a knee to lock even stares with his company. "Know that I will be gone for some time. I doubt I will be back for some years. You may even be bladed if I return. That would make me proud." He forced a smile, but it came easily to his lips; it was genuine, and that gave him a good feeling. "It's frustrating, I'm fully aware, that we've barely begun our time together, and already duty calls me back into the fray," he added, because he felt he ought to let her know that. "Still, you're a fast learner. You'll work out the rest of the kinks on your own. Get to know the rest of the Blades, and they'll help shape you into a fine archer. Their stories, I daresay, will strengthen you. They are told to strengthen those who hear them. Just another way the Order keeps close."

She nodded.

"Raegim," Nurr said, and almost laughed at the deeply melancholy expression she wore. Such a face didn't belong on a child. He put both hands on her tiny shoulders. "Don't look so scared. This isn't the end. If anything, it's a beginning for us both. Train hard. Study well. Learn all you can. Time will pass before I return…but for you, my girl, I promise to." Forsake wisdom, embrace emotion; that was a very human thing to do, but it worked often enough for Nurr to almost believe it.

She did. Raegim's eyes smiled. She pushed the package she bore into his arms.

"It will bring you home," she said, "because you'll have to carry it."

Nurr took the bundle in his arms and recognized it to match his suspicions. He cast aside its protective layer of cloth to reveal Fusozay. "Banviel overheard your and Lionus's conversation," Raegim explained, "and she came and found me. She said nobody else would be able to convince you to take it. I'm not sure what she means by that…but it felt important. Will you take it, Nurrkha'jay? Perhaps it will give you courage."

So she sensed the fear in him after all. It seemed a trifle now. Nurr stood slowly. He wanted to say no, he wanted to have the blade restored to its place at the bottom of his chest…but he didn't. Instead, almost beyond his own control, he buckled the belt around his waist. The katana hung at his hip. It would serve a ceremonial purpose, he supposed—a badge of office, if any of the mistrustful Nords of Old inquired.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

He and she regarded one another. Then she embraced him.

"You will come home," she whispered.

What else could Nurr do but return the affection and hold her close? It was there in him, and he no longer fought it. He accepted that he was truly loathe to leave her, and was suddenly very glad that she had found him after all. This moment he too would treasure.

"I will come home," he promised.

Then Raegim retreated. Nurr lifted his hood. He took the reins of his horse and led it alongside him as he journeyed down the dark passage into the Reach that awaited beyond.

He did not look back, but for the first time in his life, he regretted not doing so.

 **d|b**


	42. XXXXI - Curiosity

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

"By the gods," Ross swore aloud, wheeling the head of his horse about. "Is there no end to these accursed trails?"

He should have been in Markarth by now. The day was fast growing old, yet he felt he'd hardly made any progress since departing Eagle's Rest that morning. The settlement was long behind them, but the old cobblestone trails grew all the more treacherous, the deeper they wound into the highlands that were _Golgevild_.

He resented not having been in these lands for several years. It meant that his memory of it was poor, and he had lost comfort traversing the scape. Yes, he still retained enough sense how to avoid the dragons that dominated here, but constantly he had been delayed by it. He thought to follow the great river that carved great canyons through the mountains, believing it to have originated somewhere near Markarth, but it only took him too far north. He went back, and went too far west. Now he was utterly and hopelessly lost, and in vain he tried to locate the river again, in the hopes he might retrace his steps and begin again. A pity those dragonmen hadn't followed up on their intention to escort him or he probably wouldn't be in this predicament.

This was taking hours, and far too long at that. Night would be upon them soon. Ross doubted he could find his way back to Eagle's Rest in time, unless there came a tremendous spur of luck that guided him back. He was, however, beginning to question if luck was still his to call.

He was stuck again on a cliff, and had to dismount and search for a route his horse could clear. He located one, after a few minutes, and guided his steed to solider earth, where he promptly mounted again and set off at a cautious canter on a cliff of grass. He fringed a gorge, though the river below had long dried away, and every mountain seemed the same. Everything had a misty, silver feel to it, shrouding the senses. Ross had quite forgotten that unpleasantness.

Often he saw vast silhouettes rising suddenly from the peaks, swooping to the heavens or plunging to earth. The cries were magnified here, blurred and distorted so the creatures sounded closer than they really were. The innumerable valleys made safe havens for dragons, and excellent hunting grounds for whatever was killing them off.

Ross tried not to think of that mystery too much. The idea of yet another resistance against dragons was a dark and nervous thought. He hadn't so soon forgotten the treatment he'd received from the Raiders, a rebellion he'd heard of during his many deliveries in the east and north of Skyrim.

Rain came and went throughout the day, until when dusk really did fall, and Ross remained hopelessly lost in the thick of the stonehold, he was damp and sticky, and clung in some degree of misery to the saddle. Yet again he berated his foolishness at his getting lost—since when had he been so delayed in his journeys?—and went about searching for a place to last out the night. At least in this rugged old land there were caves aplenty.

He found one within an hour, unoccupied; perhaps its previous owner had been ratted out, given the deep gouges that ruptured the earth. Ross knew enough about dragons to know that when they couldn't pick goats off from the cliffs they burrowed out other creatures, namely bears or sabre cats or, if they were that hungry, wolves, provoking their prey into defending their dens, then dragging them into the open and devouring them.

Ross had witnessed such a hunt, when an orange and black-dappled creature the size of a longhouse was digging up a sabre cat's den, which was located close to the road. Its tail, thick as a tree trunk, lay sprawled across the road, and rather than be a fool and try to jump the thing and end up attracting the creature's attention, Ross dismounted and led himself and his horse into the shelter of a ruined farmhouse up the hill. He watched from there, morbidly fascinated by the dragon's struggle with its victim, which by its shrieking yowls and screams was putting up a decent fight. Several times the dragon recoiled with a snarl of its own, a few curses in its deep, twisted tongue, before plunging in again for a new and determined attempt. Finally the cat was exhausted and was pulled from its ruined lair. The dragon emitted a jubilant cry before it tipped back its head, the size of a carriage, and swallowed its prize whole. It thrust itself back into the lair upon discovering the cat had kits. Ross went to investigate the den after the dragon had flown off and showed no signs of returning; the creature had been horribly thorough. Only spots of blood and tufts of fur remained of the family.

He knew the signs, and though he wasn't overly comfortable with the thought of him and his mount spending the night in a raided beast burrow, he also knew that the scent of blood, ash and dragon that persisted in the air and dirt surrounding would keep other creatures away. He pitched his horse in the farthest end of the cave, where the scent was thickest, and stayed up awhile staring out at the world beyond from the entrance. It was too clear to light a fire, so he stayed damp, but at least he was out of the wind.

The stonehold was quite serene at night. The great mountains and jagged highlands painted a lovely portrait, like the kind you'd see in the Emperor's palace, in the time when there'd still been Emperors and a throne. The tranquility knocked some of the weariness from Ross's bones. He contented to stay up a little longer than he might have, simply staring at the landscape. The silence was profound and beautiful. Night was the time when the world stopped being the dragons', and became what it must have been like a hundred years ago. Ross had never known it, but he liked to imagine.

He was dozing off where he sat cross-legged between two patches of ruptured earth. Ross was one of those rare sorts of people quite capable of sleeping upright, and just might've if not for the disturbance that sounded as if it'd originated just above him.

Ross's eyes snapped open, and his hand went to the heel of his crossbow. If he wasn't mistaken…it sounded almost like a _sneeze_.

That was almost ridiculous.

He got up, let his trusted weapon rest comfortably in both palms, and ventured cautiously just beyond the entrance. He could still leap back into safety if it was an ambush. Senses tingling, Ross looked up, finger tense upon the trigger. He saw nothing.

Still, little noises had once betrayed him. He wouldn't be mistaken again.

Ross peered uphill, where the land dissolved smoothly into another mountain. It was reasonably open, though here and there were places where something could hide. He remained quiet and still, and listening, but if there was anyone up there they were naturally doing the very same.

He debated whether it might be worth an attempt at communication—if not for a sudden sound that boomed overhead like a thunderclap. A massive shadow leapt over the peaks above.

Ross ducked back inside in an instant, nearly tripping over his cloak in his haste; the flap of wings deafened him, and everything trembled as the shadow's shadow blackened the earth. Then it was gone, to be replaced with a vast body that made its way swiftly towards such the horizon Ross had been gazing at moments before. He scrambled to his feet and to the mouth of his entrance, trembling at how close he had come to being seen. _Thank whatever gods to hear dragons are poor at seeing at night,_ he prayed. The dragon had come too close, and too low.

He watched it warily pass over canals and cliffs and ditches and, perhaps, a great river somewhere below that would have taken him days to clear—then, curiously, it crashed scrabbling on a mountainside. It was no more than a smudge perched on the horizon now, Ross's eyes straining to still perceive it; yet close enough for him to gain a sense of its every action. It was climbing, and then its body began to flatten out. It had found a ledge, as it was dragging itself onto it. Was it digging out some creature's lair, hunting in the darkness?

Unmistakable footsteps diverted Ross's attention. Shocked, he recoiled deeper into the cave, nerves afire; and then there was silence. Ross counted a full minute before he dared to creep up to the entrance once more, and look to where he heard the steps. There was nothing in sight. He gained enough confidence to venture fully out into the open and peer over the edge of a bank that wound steeply down into a stone-peppered rill, but there lingered no signs of whoever had been watching him.

It had been too close.

Unsettled, Ross dragged his horse back to his feet, led him into the open, mounted him once more and rode him hard through the night, in the opposite direction of where he'd heard his hunters vanish. The stonehold yielded before him in a way as it had never before. Ross was grateful at this better fortune, but hated the truth that he was being followed. It could only be a truth, not some overexcited suspicion; it wasn't just his paranoia speaking, was it?

Not that he minded if it did. Several times it had assured his life was his.

Dawn was threatening the horizons when at last Ross dismounted. He found another warren, shallower than the last, but sheltered from the rain beginning to drizzle over the slumbering land. Hungry, weary and downright frustrated with his total loss of direction, Ross settled against the cave, crossbow across his lap, and tried to at least sleep a little. It wouldn't do him any good for his senses to be slow come daybreak. He listened to his horse chewing cud as dreams hesitantly ventured to claim him.

And they were shattered with a warbling howl.

Ross jerked upright as his horse whinnied, pulling restlessly at his tethers. _Wolves_ , he thought, and climbed to his knees. The sun was almost up. He raced out from under the rocky ledge he'd taken shelter beneath, and almost wished he'd hadn't. Around him the highlands exploded with savage cries and shrieks, and many more throaty howls. He saw ghost-like shadows dancing over the scramble of stony earth almost below him, more leaping brooks and banks. They flooded out of cracks and mist, a stream of rippling pelts and gleaming eyes. Their cries grew greater in volume as more and more joined the body.

Ross stared, then recoiled, back into his cave. The thrum of falling paws grew deafening. Then, over a strip of meadow below him, the flood surged on; countless dark-pelted wolves went sweeping past. At first Ross feared they'd been following him, and they'd amassed a vast hunting pack to end him and his terrified horse; then he realized that they were running past without any sign of slowing. If anything, their gait was increasing. These creatures, he realized faintly, were wolves with purpose. Impossible as it seemed, that was the conclusion he came to from such a peculiar sight.

He cautiously crept out again after their cries faded to echoes and the rumble of their paws ceased to nothing. They were lost in the brume uphill beyond, the way he'd come. _How strange,_ Ross thought. _How uncanny. I knew the wolves of the westhold were growing bolder, but this I have not heard of._ Then his mind returned to the eerie magic of the greenwood, the bald raven, the dark soul of the changed forest, and shuddered. More than ever, Ross was certain of Halling's unearthly ties to the trees and to the magic that thrived there still, remembering bitterly the shallow memory that was the years before the dragons' tyranny. _The elk and the wolf and the raven are among the eldest beasts to tread the world,_ Ross thought, _most attuned to the flow of this Earth Magic._

He returned to shelter, trying to summon a greater conclusion to such occurrences. He had not seen a pack like this in all his years—a pack great enough to sack a city, as if all wolves of the stonehold had congregated and merged into one vast communion of predators. Where had they been going? Ross did not want to know. He wrapped his damp cloak more tightly around him and slept fitfully.

The day's journey that followed saw no sign of wolf or dragon, though Ross could not wholly shake the feeling that unfriendly eyes followed his every movement. He imagined shadows springing in the arches of rock above his head, waiting for a moment of his weakness. He wished he knew the road's location. He wished the day was briefly clear, that he might climb a pine or a rock face and try to find the road at a height. For all he knew he was stumbling blind. Anything could await him. Ross hated it, hated this amateur travel, even more than the greenwood.

The day strengthened and waned as time slipped past. Ross lost track of how long he'd spent in the saddle. The good news was, at least, he'd found running water, and it wound downhill. Gratefully he followed it, hoping against hope that it would lead him to the Karth, and to the old road that sprawled on the bank beside it.

The rill joined a broader body, its currents swift and melodic. Satisfied, Ross patted his horse's sweaty neck and permitted him a short drink—yet his stallion baulked at something he could not see, whickered in fear at something beyond.

Ross trusted in his horse's senses. He dismounted, drew his weapon, raised it, and peered cautiously into the pale sheen of mist above the water that separated whatever lay on the far bank.

The silhouette of what lay over the river strengthened in a few minutes—and he could hear it now, whatever it was that worried his horse, which had remembered life was silence. He stood quietly but alertly, ears twitching and eyes darting in all directions. A soft, rumbling sigh skimmed through the fog, and Ross started. "Dragon," he whispered aloud, as his insides chilled. He swiftly looked about for someplace to, at the very least, conceal himself. The beasts relied on their sight more than anything, and camouflage worked to surprising extent against them…and then he heard a different sound, one that inspired guarded curiosity.

Ross realized something. The sounds of the dragon were short, precise, clipped and ever-changing; _speech_. It was communicating, not hunting, but what it was speaking with…the replies were haggard, rasped and wheezed, spluttered and choked; like nothing Ross had ever heard before. He frowned and stared harder through the mist. He could almost see the far bank.

A large cave was set beneath a plateau, stone enfolding its broad, sloping entrance. Before it, its tail trailing almost lazily in the water, was the dragon horse and rider had sensed; its golden scales glowed brilliantly in the stonehold gloom, the white on its wings starkly apparent. It faced the cavern, speaking into it…no, even that observation was not entirely astute…

The longer Ross stared, the more he was made aware of. Something huddled outside the cavern entrance, something shorter than a man, perhaps the height and shape of a man that was crouching. From what he could make of it, though, Ross knew that the person that shared words with the dragon was no man or mer. It wore raiment that was almost like shell, covering most of its chalky skin; utterly hairless, with oversized hands and feet, and something like large elven ears, it was visibly repulsive, as were the ugly caterwauling cries coming from its sallow throat. It was nothing Ross had ever seen before, yet he felt that the tone of whatever conversation went on between this etiolated creature and this vibrant gold-scaled dragon was serious, bearing some degree of sincerity.

Ross racked his brains for some logical answer to this most bizarre of sights, in vain. He was further bewildered when, seemingly with ceremony, the pale creature presented the dragon with something, almost like a jewel, only it was the size of its bearer's head, and shaped like an egg; its girth was bound in black decorative metal, its pointed tips shone a brilliant yellow. Almost certainly it bore magical qualities. The dragon spoke further, its attention centered upon the peculiar stone. Was it some sort of peace offering? Dragons were fond of collecting shiny things of worth; perhaps the pallid creature's brethren had formed some sort of alliance with the beasts, safety in exchange for these mysterious objects.

Common sense came roaring back and slapped him in the face. Ross recoiled sharply. He had no right to know nor any will to learn. This was beyond him. He stumbled in his unexpected haste, and his boots caught on the slippery shore stones, which clattered into the river.

The current drowned the splashes—at least, to Ross's ears—yet the creature turned sharply, its head facing straight at him. A shrill shriek gargled from it. The dragon swung around, and Ross knew at once he'd been spotted, or detected in some way. _How did it know?_ he thought in panic, snatching his horse's reins and dragging his steed back the way they'd come, but already the dreaded noise of unfurling wings sounded behind him.

Ross was in the saddle and riding hard, just as the fog behind him exploded and, yards above his head, the dragon's body roared over him. It bellowed with terrifying volume as it rose into the cloudy sky. His horse spooked. Ross fought to regain control, for the animal was running wild beneath him, lost in blind fear.

The river grew mightier as it chased them along the river, then divided. The specter of a massive island rose before them, and the river flowed around it like a moat. Ross turned his beast just in time, guiding him uphill, where unexpectedly, after a frenzied scramble, the road appeared before him; cobbles gleamed and clattered with horrifying clarity under the horse's hooves.

"No!" Ross gasped, tugging hard on the reins. "Turn back! Turn back!" The road would give them away—he could hear the pounding wings again, matching with the pounding of his heart—and the earth would muffle their steps. The irony of the situation hit him later, when he had time to think. He succeeded in halting the horse, and in turning it one way, but his mount betrayed him again, swinging around to fly down the path.

The thrumming pattern shifted above their heads. There was a sound like a gale. Grit showered suddenly upon Ross, and he hurriedly brushed them out of his eyes. That was the beginning of his downfall; the reins were wrenched from his distracted hands, flung too far up the stallion's bobbing neck, and even as he reached out for them the foggy atmosphere shattered, there was a scream that destroyed all other sounds to be heard, and the steed reared to a giant that crashed down before them. Unbalanced, disorientated, and frightened himself, Ross lost the composure of a rider, and tumbled from his horse.

His head cracked on the cobblestones, and Ross knew that this was the end of him.

He found himself on his front, gasping, skull throbbing with more pain than Ross had ever known, and his own warm blood caking one cheek. Hoofbeats faded; his horse was fled. Ross felt a sinister shadow befall him. Trembling, he stared up, into his death's blazing green glare.

" _Mey!_ " The dragon gnashed its vast fangs. "What are you doing? What have you done?"

Ross faltered. He tried to stand and fell back on his elbows. Too sick and scared to try and flee again, he answered shakily, in slight bemusement: "What have I done?"

"Do not play this foolish game!" The dragon lashed forward, pulling its huge body after it; adrenalin flushed through Ross and he scrabbled backwards out of its reach, yet when it passed it only left him feeling more drained, more ill. "Answer me, _joor!_ You witnessed what no mortal eyes were yet to see! You have tampered with millions of fates!"

Accused of crimes he barely understood, Ross struggled for a coherent response. A dragon's wrath was truly a terribly thing to behold. It seemed moments from swallowing him alive, as had been the fate of the sabre cat long ago. "I did…I meant nothing by it!" he exclaimed. "I…my horse and I, we lost our way, we were only making our way to Mar— _Frilingul_ —"

" _Nahlot!_ " The dragon's nostrils flared. "This goes only against you, fox-throat. Your fate was not mine—but you have made it so, _joor_ , and I foresee only dark consequences ahead of this!" He arched his head; his entirety sprawled across the road, and Ross shook in the shadow he cast. "The fickle natures of men," he snarled, "their murderous demands, their life-blooded riddle-telling, their interference in affairs of the gods! Must I always be the villain you see me as? If not then more will die, and this grim duty I bear will be for naught!"

"Please," said Ross desperately, "don't hurt me—I mean you no harm!"

"You harmed more than you know," the dragon growled. " _Mey jul_ , look where you are! _Sahhe vokun monahhe_ —phantoms shadow these mountains, do you know not? Ghosts that devour mine brothers, and any that dare to see reason in this turmoil! I must be away before my fate becomes theirs—for the fates of others count on my return! Begone, freerider, before you too are found and punished of innocent crimes!"

Ross sagged in confused relief. Had his ears deceived him? "You won't kill me?"

"BEGONE!" the dragon roared; his anger was as hot as flame. "I will have no more men die on my account, by battle, hunt or _vaxnilz!_ "

It was as if a candle had been lit in his mind, to banish the darkness; suddenly Ross saw this dragon more clearly, and what was more, he _recognized_ him. "You're the one!" Ross exclaimed, shocked. "The one at the _vaxnilz_ in _Ahgelingrah—_ you killed Ulfric Stormbear!"

" _Geh_ , I was, and did," the dragon hissed, "so see me now again, unfortunate, and _hon dii thu'um: Zu'u los Uldmidaar_ , though I doubt you would have forgotten it so quickly. Ill word is spoken of me—this I did not want, but when asked to sacrifice, I obey! After all, all men of _Keizaal_ perceive me as the enemy, do they not? Do _you_ not? Do not deny, _joor_ , your hearts are all too easy to read."

Yet the words Ross heard served only to further astonish him. Nothing made as much sense as it had before—he struggled to his knees, still reeling to this dragon's unchecked hostility, and his supposed luck, at being released—but to what end? Why was he not dead already? He'd spent long enough in this frigid land to know the nature of these creatures, and nothing they did was made on an idle whim; it all fit into some evil machination in the end.

"Go," Uldmidaar spat, "and fortune will smile on us both should our paths never cross again." His vast gold-and-white wings flared, and a rough wind stirred beneath him.

And from nowhere, a vast black mesh descended and trapped the dragon under its blanket of thick ebony cords. Uldmidaar shrieked, yet all the rage had fled him; suddenly he was terrified, for a great wail rose from him.

Ross panicked. He shot to his feet, despite the agony of his head, yet he'd barely taken more than five stumbling steps when the ground was forced under him again. A second net had pinned him to the road with winding strength, with the force to crush his bones.

He struggled, to no avail. Uldmidaar's thrashing did not make his bindings yield. With sickening certainty, Ross realized he, and this dragon, were trapped.

Thoughts and experiences rampaged through him. _Have a care,_ the young bear warned, _we are not the only dragonhunters in this world._ Being watched in the night, rumours circulating upon these whispered enemies of the dragons, rumours he'd even discussed and shared with those he encountered in his travels. They were true. All were true. By these so-called phantoms he was ensnared and helpless. Fading fast, his horse gone, unable to reach his crossbow—much less fight—Ross could almost see his doom before him.

There were running footsteps, focused and fearless. Uldmidaar's anguished howls subsided to the fierce voices that rose somewhere beyond, where Ross was unable to see. "We haven't had an opportunity like this in years. The acolytes are going to love this."

"Silence it quickly, before it brings more than we bargained for."

There was a sound like breaking ice and kindling fire; Uldmidaar's cries subsided almost at once.

"An Elder: the acolytes haven't studied one in half a century."

"The Dragon Trench, quickly."

As footsteps drew near to Ross, he heard a strained slithering of scaled flesh over the cobblestones, followed by a mighty splash. Then cold shadows fell over Ross, who strained to look up, struggling to meet the eyes of his captors.

He saw a pair of armoured silhouettes, one shorter and slighter than the other. "This one?" the shorter one asked, in the plain sand-swept lilt of a Redguard. Briefly Ross thought of Vixen. "He was sharing words with the dragon. Think it might be worthwhile trying to solve what they've been saying?"

Ross couldn't speak, again—a tendril of net pushed down on his nape, shutting off his voice—but he couldn't move, and his pin was beneath him. He hoped they would spare him long enough to drag him up, to realize his occupation, to let him speak and let him go.

"Worth a try," her companion growled, in an Orsimer's rasp. "After all, recent events suggest it's folly not to try—and, last time I checked, we had some free cells in the dragon gaol. Doubtless the beast would like some company."

"Might improve the length of its incarceration," the Redguard agreed.

The Orc ripped the netting off with one sweep, seized Ross's collar with the other, and hauled him up. "I'm not your enemy," the freerider tried, desperate in the few precious moments he knew he had before he could speak no more, "you misunderstand, I'm only passing—"

"Ah, shut it," the Orc growled, as his fist met Ross's skull.

 **d|b**


	43. XXXXII - Seeker of Knowledge

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

Pain bloomed unexpectedly like a tangible, hideous flower. Pyrus swallowed a scream as he sank to his knees, clutching desperately at his robes, suddenly burning beneath the fabric. He tore at them in a fit of madness, but his fingers were trembling, all strength fled from them. Suddenly he was thrust into the agonizing memory of a blinding flare, the feel of flames licking away his flesh, and all the breath left his lungs as he was speared with a lance of fire—

—and then it was over. The fit subsided. Pyrus opened his eyes, his lids heavy with cold sweat, haggardly coaxing breath back into his ravaged body. It took a moment for him to stop trembling, and a little longer to uncoil, to sit up, to get up. Even then he was unsteady, for the pain didn't cease. It simmered in him, promising to be worse than before if he let it return.

 _The hour draws close…if it hasn't already passed._ Muttering a string of profanities, Pyrus glared at the bleak sky above. This accursed land…! It was impossible to anticipate his next dosage in this constant grey murk, the mist that shrouded his sight and blotted the sun. He'd missed the time yesterday as well, and the fit had taken him by surprise, and left him groaning and writhing on the ground. He'd been so exhausted by it that he'd had to retire early, and he slept late into the following morning.

Still cursing, Pyrus stumbled off the road, fumbling at the pouch on his belt. He groped for his flask, pulled it out, loosed its stopper with shaking hands and anxiously upended it over his gaping mouth. Not a drop went down his throat.

Pyrus stared at the empty flask and swore loudly. He'd forgotten to make more of the mixture. He'd intended to when he settled down the previous night, but the fit had driven that from his mind. All he'd cared for was sleep.

There was nothing for it; he'd have to make some right now, on the side of the road in a ditch, and woe betide him if he couldn't make some in time. No doubt he'd collapse again. Pyrus flushed with shame, and fear; fear of his shame, and fear of his vulnerability. He hated this stonehold, and he hated himself in this crippled state of his. He was furious that there was nothing he could do about it but rely on his medicine like some misfit; so, vengefully, Pyrus set to work, which proved more taxing than he last recalled. Gradually his anger melted away, replaced with a growing sense of urgency, for the potion would take time to make.

He forgot he was in a ditch, he forgot his shame. He concentrated on procuring a small fire, which sapped his waning strength; when the blaze was assured, he had to wait for it to become hot enough for him to do anything over it. By then he was scratching stubbornly at his robes, filthy with the dust of days of unbroken travel, for his scars were tingling with a dry itch. He bit his lip and drew blood, and for a little while that distracted him from the thought of a returning fit.

His supply of herbs was running low. Pyrus pulled out wiltered leaves and shrivelled roots, and uttered a profanity he didn't even know he knew. At this rate he'd be out of supplies before he'd even uncovered so much a _hint_ of a dragon lair close by. Fuming, he prepared the concoction, trying hard to ignore the new way his hands were quivering like some infirm old man's. Finally welcoming fumes came wafting out from the pot. He inhaled them hopefully, and was relieved when it took the edge off the itching, and the growing ache in him retreated slightly.

That was when, as his head and senses cleared, he detected distant hoofbeats.

Pyrus froze in alarm. So he was not as alone as he'd have hoped in this foul wilderness. It came to him suddenly, the idea that he did not want to be found. Huffing, he scrabbled clumsily to his knees, pushed himself up to peer awkwardly through a growth of blackthorns rooted above the ditch, separating him from the road above. The mist beyond remained thick and blank as ever, but undeniably the horse was coming this way, and closer, at a pace that made him sick to his stomach.

He sank back, hoping he was hidden enough…and then his eyes rested upon the bubbling pot, giving off silver steam that curled lightly into the air. Horror opened in him, and then despair; no, it was too cruel, so cruel that he did not want to think it possible. He wanted to believe that this was some jape. Pyrus twisted around again. Was there an indistinct shape swirling through the brume above? The drum of hooves was swelling in its volume.

He hesitated still. He wasn't sure he had enough left to brew a batch of firesbane like this, yet if he interrupted its brewing now he'd quite probably ruin the potion's potency. But he couldn't let the fire burn. The smoke would be seen. He'd be found. Pyrus clutched his satchel, felt the shape of the dragon egg through the bag's mud-splattered exterior. His purpose would be taken away from him, he was certain. Nothing could have it. Nothing!

He kicked mud and sodden, gritty earth over the flames, quelling them at once.

By now the horse was almost upon him.

Pyrus leaned back, closed his eyes, and waited with a racing mind.

Quite suddenly, a possibility opened in his mind—he only heard one set of hooves, only one horse, only one rider…and the rider could be alone. What if Pyrus revealed himself, took the loner by surprise, blasted him from the saddle and took the horse? It would quicken his journey through the cold, inhospitable land that was _Golgevild_. Yet the thought of this wearied him; he was sick from missed medicine, the hour of his burning approaching or already gone, and with such fury throbbing in his scars, the idea of conflict drained all will in him. Consumed with the fear that he'd already ruined his potion, that another fit was on the way, there was no way he could hope to win even a menial fight. Magicka slipped through his fingers like water. Divided in mind, he could not hold it.

Nonetheless, he needed a horse. His own had been lost to him in his first day in the stonehold. He'd merely turned his back to it for a minute, no more, while he filled his waterskin from a frigid rill beside them, and wolves had torn the beast's shaggy throat out before Pyrus had even realized the threat. A show of his fire warned the predators against taking him too, and while they gorged themselves on the horse he'd fled, swum through a stream to destroy his scent and hidden himself until he was certain the monstrosities had moved on. Time had been wasted, and more so, as Pyrus was condemned to a long and arduous journey on foot.

 _A journey doomed to failure if I do not resupply soon,_ Pyrus scowled to himself, _and for that I need a horse to find my way back to civilization._ There were a few settlements scattered here and there in _Golgevild_ —he wondered if Eagle's Rest was near. The mountainous hamlet was largely self-sufficient; perhaps there would be an alchemist present.

He dared to look out at the road again, peering carefully through a thick knot of thorns; he saw the mist give way around a tall shape. The horse came into sight at a brisk canter. Pyrus gained an idea of a cloaked rider, their face shadowed by a steep cowl, and a faint rattling that suggested armour. A freerider, perhaps? Pyrus tensed, wondering if he should try and take this chance—if he could take this wanderer by surprise, maybe he'd succeed in robbing them. He could be mistaken for a common bandit; his beard had grown in somewhat, hairy and ugly, masking the majority of his features—his clothes were streaked with filth. He prepared to straighten, demanded fire into his hands, and tried to focus his fraying thoughts into conjuring a firebolt.

Then, with neck-snapping suddenness, the rider twisted in the saddle. The horse slid to an unsteady halt. Pyrus stiffened, and all desire to fight drained from him. Through the thorns he saw the stilled stranger more clearly. The cloak bulged in places, as though concealing weaponry—the hump on their back suggested a quiver—and when the rider turned the horse around, Pyrus saw a sword sheath at their hip. Some of the cloak's pine-green folds slipped back, and from the little Pyrus saw, he suspected full body armour. The flame dwindled slowly in his palm, soundless as the setting sun.

This could be no simple wanderer—a soldier? A vagabond? Some fool playing at heroism? Pyrus did not imagine freeriders to garb themselves so heavily, and slowly he gained a sense of impeding danger from this rider. He was tiring, and nervously tried to keep as silent as possible. He did not think he could fight even if his life depended on it. He resisted the urge to scratch.

The rider looked to either side of them. One hand reached down behind the saddle and resurfaced bearing a bow. The other swept up to seize an arrow, and briefly the cloak was pulled back. Watery sunlight fell where the fabric yielded metal, revealing the rider was indeed wearing full armour, blackish-blue in hue, battered in such a way that suggested the raiment had endured half a hundred mortal conflicts. The make was unfamiliar to Pyrus. Then it was concealed again, as the rider's arms lowered, the cloak draping back over him. The arrow was nocked swiftly to the drawstring, and the rider looked more slowly around him, as though he were searching—presuming the rider was male.

Pyrus did not want to see any more; he wanted to shrink back, to completely conceal himself in the shadow of the blackthorns; but he did not trust himself to move silently. The slightest noise would give him away—the world around them had suddenly grown very quiet.

Then the rider froze, becoming perfectly still and upright. His head snapped to the sky, lowered, and for an instant his glittering eyes raked the roadside thorns where Pyrus huddled. Then, slowly, he nudged his steel-shod heels against the horse's flanks, and rode on into the mist. Heartbeats later, they were gone, their footsteps fading from hearing.

Relieved, Pyrus sank back with a sigh, and a wince. The itching was becoming almost unbearable, like worms were writhing under his skin. He tried not to scratch and instead returned at once to his cooling potion, feverishly reheating the thickening liquid. He prayed it had not been ruined. Let it at least be potent enough to quell the poison in him…

His hand, quite abruptly, locked on his satchel, and the object it bore.

The fire was fine without him—Pyrus pulled the egg free, suddenly desperate to feel his purpose in his palms again. There it lay, the biggest egg that the world might ever know. In the misty green-grey of the stonehold, its silver-blue shell glowed brilliantly, welcoming to his weary eyes. He smiled nervously, his fingers quickly tracing the familiar pattern of whorls and whirls engraved into the smooth surface. Warmth pulsed under his touch. A dragonling lay curled within—a dragonling that he vowed one day would be his.

 _Bound to me—mine to raise, mine to learn from._ Excitement returned to him, Pyrus hurriedly tucked the egg away, and spared a few furtive glances around him. He hated this hold. The mist obscured his senses. The sun was hidden from him. The land was unforgiving, bitter and rough, and dragons were a frequent sight or sight of presence. Pyrus had ventured off-road many times, particularly after he'd lost his horse; he'd found ravaged beast dens, great steaming burn streaks or frost stripes splayed across the sloping earth, and even an abandoned lair.

That had been a great discovery on his part, though it yielded almost nothing useful in terms of his mission. Nonetheless, scientific curiosity drove him to explore. Old animal bones had carpeted the entrance and the lair floor, and strewn right through the middle of it had been the dragon that had once called the shelf home—but it was long dead. Rats and Skeevers and other detestable vermin were feasting on its remains, but fled into the shadow at Pyrus's approach. What was left of the dragon's flesh was rotting, flies and maggots roiled in the decay, and the stench alone had made him reel and retch. He soaked a strip of cloth in a nearby rill and advanced to investigate the cause of the dragon's death, which had intrigued him—dragons didn't just 'die', they were always killed, for time could not claim them as it claimed all else—and discovered that the flesh and scales had been torn and ripped or blasted away in places, the work of swords and spells. Then, he found the undoubted cause of the dragon's actual demise; a disintegrating arrow shaft stuck fast and deep through the creature's eye socket, the head of it probably embedded in what was left of its brain.

He'd been astonished. _No beast killed this dragon—but mortal. Something…some_ one _…attacked and slew this dragon, but who would dare…?_ For one utterly absurd moment Pyrus thought of the Dragonborn, then realized that this could not be so. All that he'd read of the Dragonborn and his predecessors stated plainly that the Dragonborn could devour the souls of their slain draconic foes, leaving behind only skeletal remains.

Recalling this, Pyrus thought suddenly of the armoured rider, clad in green, and bearing a bow.

The stonehold had officially become a far more fascinating place—and far more dangerous.

 _There could be more._ Pyrus pushed his bag close into his heaving chest. _They could find me at anytime. They could—no, they_ would _—find the egg. If there is a dragon hunter in this hold then plainly they harbour no love for dragons, or anything to do with them. The egg is in peril._ Fear flushed through him. He could not risk losing it. Hurriedly he scraped a shallow hole under the blackthorns, wishing it was deeper—but the ground turned to clay the deeper he burrowed, and he had no strength to fight it. Tenderly he placed the egg within the shallow depression, stared at it ruefully awhile, then covered it with the earth. He placed strips of plants and leaf litter and old twigs over the slight bulge in the ground, to further conceal it, and any scent it might bear.

 _Now I need only a way to find my way back, should I ever learn how to hatch it._ Pyrus heaved himself, with mounting difficulty, out of the ditch and back onto the road above. Slick grey-white cobbles pressed into his hands and knees, making him wince to the rising aches. Inspiration came to him in a flash of flame, and with it dancing between his fingers, he chose a cobble and scoured it black. It was right in front of the blackthorn bush.

Pyrus smiled, though anticipation curled like a serpent in his stomach. _I won't lose my way. I must follow the roads from now, and remember the route I have taken…although…_ A second thought curled in his mind. Illusion. He remembered Brangwen telling him of a certain spell in that school, a spell that would guide its caster to whatever they set their minds to—if it existed in the mundane, of course. She said that it was one of the first few spells illusion pupils learned to master. Surely it could not be difficult for an accomplished mage to learn?

 _But I must waste as little time as possible,_ he frowned. _I have no time to return to the College on the other side of Skyrim, when the key to learning the secrets of dragon rearing lie in the stonehold._ His aches twinged, and bitterly Pyrus was thrust back into the memory of his failed fight against Vylornar. Fury surged in him, quelling the pain. _I will not fail again, and I will show them all._

So how to begin? It was all very well deciding to find a dragon, to share secrets that only they surely knew, but upon finding one, then what? Would he subdue the creature to within an inch of its life, and demand information from it? No, they were far too proud to respond to such pettiness.

Perhaps, Pyrus told himself, perhaps he had been overthinking this. Grown dragons could be too powerful, too stubborn-minded to yield to his demands; but younger dragons…the young were more impressionable, so wyrms were surely the same. Wyrms were yet to fill their wings, wyrms were yet to grasp their kindred's inexhaustible pride. Wyrms could share with him secrets they did not even realize were secrets. Even learning how they were raised could help with his hatching of the egg.

 _But they are not loyal to their parents,_ he remembered suddenly. _Independence is forced upon them from the instant they can fend for themselves._ Still, he frowned, it was a start. Somewhere to begin. He did not fancy stumbling blindly about this accursed hold for months or years.

So where to find a wyrm? Pyrus had read enough about dragons to know what they were; the equivalent of adolescents, wyrms were too young to take mates but old enough to fend for themselves. That made them foolhardy and dangerous, for wyrms took their new liberties to make a name for themselves, to help them win respect among their elders, in order to more effectively hold highly-contested territory. Wyrms also tended to verge on disobedience. Pyrus had heard of many cases in raided farms and attacked settlements, even those protected by dragonmen, commenced by the young dragons determined to be noticed by their betters. The dragons tended to dismiss these breaches as mere displays, rather like a rash child hitting those around them with the new wooden sword they received as a gift. They were too young to understand that while dragons could choose to live as freefliers rather than soldiers to their Lord, they still had to obey the laws those soldiers set down. Nevermind that elders themselves often succumbed to the temptation of reminding humans who were the stronger. They were mighty hypocrites. Pyrus, absurdly, chuckled at this.

He also knew that wyrms were rare; there was good reason why men didn't know much about the master race's methods of reproduction, namely because the dragons kept rearing their broods a shrouded secret. Wyrms were few and far, and only made a point through excessive destruction.

 _And right now, wyrms are my only chance,_ Pyrus sighed, wondering when his already rotten luck would fall apart completely. It was only a matter of time. Still, he would go on. He did not want to return to the College until he had what he'd been seeking.

He returned to the potion. A foul smell was rising from the pot, and coughing, Pyrus waved the darkening smoke aside. His heart sank. _Gods take me._ The potion was nothing like it should be. Too thin at the top, too thick at the bottom, the balance was all off, and it was ruined. It would be of no use to him. Fuming, Pyrus cast the pot aside, and watched angrily as the spoiled firesbane seeped sluggishly into the dirt. _If not for that rider…_

There was nothing for it. He would have to start again. Pyrus groaned as he returned reluctantly to his satchel, pulling out the ragged remains of his herb supply. This might be enough to see him to Eagle's Rest, due south of his position…

Pain swept through him, bowling Pyrus off his feet once more. He shuddered in response to the white-hot sensation of flames scorching every inch of his body, burning his fiery robes away, burning his own flesh into dust in a spear of blazing red, while beyond the triumphant Dragonlord his loyal wingsteed stood behind, its ember-bright eyes bearing unhidden malevolence…

A long, unbroken keening dispelled the fit.

Pyrus's eyes snapped open. _Dragon!_ he knew at once, for what else could make such an unearthly cry?

Yet it was nothing he'd ever heard—nothing like the shrieks that burst from the pair that had fought over the unruly black waters of the Sea of Ghosts—nothing like the cries that had drowned all other sounds in Winterhold as the gleeful monsters converged on the houses, scorning the terrified townsfolk—this was something else entirely, full of more sorrow than Pyrus had ever heard a living thing make.

But dragons felt no sadness, they felt nothing but greed and rage and their insufferable pride!

Pyrus listened. The wailing returned. He thought it sounded not entirely sorrowful now…but almost afraid. It occurred to him that this dragon was probably lamenting its fate to whatever bold and foolish mortal had dared to slay its brethren.

He hurriedly packed away his things and scrabbled, panting, from the ditch. Without looking back he ran down the road, back the way the rider had come, towards the screaming. But Pyrus could not go for a few minutes before having to rest, as his bones ached and trembled in his body. He stumbled almost off his feet and leaned against a boulder, trying to catch his breath. There was a dagger-sharp pain in his side, and his hand went to it, and felt the deep hollow where the firelance had taken a bit of him away for good.

There was no more wailing. The creature was probably dead.

Pyrus straightened, wondering. His satchel felt far too light without the egg, and he wondered if he'd just been a fool again, a thrice-damned fool for leaving it behind—what if someone had followed him from _Kiifost_ , and right now was digging up his egg and taking it for his own? The responding flush of terror almost made him turn back—but sense returned, and he turned forward. No-one would have followed him, he reassured himself. None had seen his treasure. None had had any idea. It was perfectly safe where he had left it, and it would still be there when he came back for it.

Right now, he had to find a reason for going back to it, or he would be doomed to wander this misty land forever.

Pyrus drew a deep breath. Maybe the dragon killer could give him some leads. First, though, he'd have to find him, and win his trust—well, presuming it was a 'he'. Without the egg, it could be simple. Pyrus started forward again, at a hobbling walk, determined to last as long as he could even as the lack of firesbane was steadily creeping forward to claim him. _An hour more, I can last an hour more, at most, before the pain becomes unbearable,_ he told himself. _A mile, maybe less…_

He wasn't sure how long he walked, or how much time had passed, but he was still on his feet and moving, though his breaths came audibly and with effort, when Pyrus scrabbled wearily onto a small cliff that overlooked a sweeping river. _Is this the Karth?_ he frowned, attempting to recall what few maps he'd ever taken the time to study. He remembered something about the great river of the stonehold, and this appeared to be it, whether it was called the Karth or not. Maybe the dragons had given it a new name, if they'd bothered to.

He thought this was where the dragon cries had sounded, but Pyrus could see no signs of a fight. The road stretched on alongside the river, while great wafts of misty cloud dribbled by, shrouding the not-so-distant horizon, or reducing them to murky shadows that jutted against the bleak sky. Perhaps the dragon had fallen into the river? How deep was it? How strong was its current? Enough to bear one of the beasts?

Pyrus sighed and stiffly leaned down, his back against the jutting lip of the cliff, slumped and spent on the earth. Sharpness sprang in his insides whenever he sucked in breath. He wondered if he was going to die, if the wounds would just come afire again and finally destroy their tormented host. Maybe then he'd be free of the humiliation that had dogged him since the fight.

He closed his eyes, suddenly weary. He'd slept long, but not well, and fatigue smothered him like a blanket. It was strangely warm and soothing, almost like the sleep he'd sunken into when the firestorm had ravaged him. Almost. It was still cold, his attire was soiled, the stone was stiff and uncomfortable against his spine.

Nonetheless he felt too tired to care. He'd make his way to Eagle's Rest soon enough. Pyrus nodded off, and soon was dozing. The pain lessened a little.

He would have been content there to lie there for an hour or more, and perhaps that time elapsed, before there came a sound that made his eyelids flutter open. His drowsy ears registered a sort of sliding noise, a skidding sort of scrape, like…like metal against stone. Then he picked up something else, something that made his eyes open and a spark kindle in his heart; a sort of cough, not like what an animal would make, but more like a badly muffled curse.

Pyrus rooted his mind back to his surroundings, and gradually became alert. He was slow to respond but he wasn't mistaken. Quickly he looked around him, struck with the horrific idea that he wasn't as alone as he'd thought. Something sentient was watching him—and for a moment he feared the worst. He tried to scramble to his feet, but they wouldn't move. They were like lead. His burns were itching fiercely. He managed to raise his arms, but they shook, and the fire he conjured was feeble and pale in his palms.

Rasping for air, Pyrus tilted his heavy head back, staring up at the cliffs around him. So he wasn't alone—let them come. They wouldn't take him alive, whoever they were—mortal scouts for the dragon cause? Residents of the stonehold who believed him their enemy? Bandits thinking him easy spoils? But his egg was not with him, but safely stored away where only he could find it. The thought gave him strength, and the fire brightened in his hands.

And as though in response, a flash of viridescent light sprang forth from above the cliffs, and struck him squarely.

Pyrus gasped. The fire went out, inside and out. His muscles froze, his arms dropped, and he became as limp as a corpse. His head hung like a rock on his shoulders, and he was forced to stare down at his belt with a lolling mouth and eyes wide and unblinking. Breathing became that much more of a struggle. After a moment the fear came, and his nerves turned sharp as flint, cutting him from within. His mind whirled, trying to find some explanation to the spell that had paralyzed him. He'd seen nothing like this in the College. _What have they done to me?!_

He heard gravelly footsteps crunching the ground, two sets of them, as the strangers approached. Their armour chinked softly in time to their strides. "Wondered if there'd be any more skulking around," one noted unkindly, in the hard baritone of an Orsimer. "Nifty bit of magic you did there. Haven't seen that one before."

His companion answered him, her tone Nordic. "There's all sorts of magic that the greenwood taught me."

"What have you done to him?"

"Immobilized. He'll be docile as a sack of potatoes. Here, search this."

Pyrus felt the satchel tugged from his side, yet he felt nobody bend over him to take it. It struck him—this strange woman, the one clearly responsible for the green light, knew magic. She'd used telekinesis to lift his bag. It was as precise as Brangwen opening the mead bottle for him in the Winterhold tavern.

There was a moment of silence, in which Pyrus heard the Orc having a hefty rummage through the humble bag. "Nothing of much interest, save these," he grunted, withdrawing something that sounded suspiciously like Pyrus's money pouch.

"Oh, put that away," the Nord laughed. "We don't need that."

"Reckon we've just nabbed some poor traveller, then?"

"Hmph," the woman said disdainfully. "There are no travellers—just traitors to Skyrim and the thrice-cursed freeriders. Or they're one of the bear's lackeys." She seemed particularly disgruntled as she mentioned the Raiders.

"So this fellow, then? What's he?" A metal boot nudged Pyrus not so gently in his side, tipping him onto his face—and his burns surged with pain. He couldn't refrain from a yelp as his unresponsive form toppled face-forward onto the dirt.

"Wounded," said the Nord, with a note of concern. "Be gentle, would you? You don't know your own strength sometimes."

"Look, I didn't mean to put the other one's lights out, I swear—"

"Of course you didn't," the woman said dryly. "And don't give me that look, Kierra told me the whole thing." Pyrus heard her kneel down beside him, felt her hands skimming his robes. "He's a mage," she observed suddenly. "These are College robes."

"The College?" The Orc's response was guarded. "What business would a College flunkey have in this goddamned heap of rock?"

Pyrus seethed. _College flunkey indeed!_ If only he could regain his magicka…he'd burn these two fools to a crisp, just like those bandits…

Suddenly he was turned over, and the agony of his burns returned in full force. He cried out involuntarily as he twisted onto his back. There was a flash above his eyes, and two metallic fingers pulled his lids down, blinding him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get them back up. "He's hurt bad," he heard the woman say, her voice much clearer than before, "but there's no blood…"

"He's just having you on," the Orc muttered. "Just kill him and be done with it."

The woman didn't answer, but she did pull the flask from Pyrus's hip. He felt it come loose, wondered what she was going to do with it. He heard the stopper being undone, heard her sniff it, then say in sudden understanding, "Firesbane."

"Ah," the Orc growled, "that'd explain the plant stuff in here." He shook the bag. Pyrus imagined the wilted herbs floating to earth.

"He's out, though," the Nord said quickly. "I bet he's suffering from whatever burns he's been suppressing. Those herbs are old, barely potent." She sighed. "And I suppose Emilyn would like to know what he's doing so close to…so close to us."

"Wouldn't she just," the Orc echoed, not sounding happy about the idea.

"Come on, Rogg, you'll gain a guilty conscience if you leave him here to suffer."

"Hell, aren't you all heart." A frosty silence endured, but the Orc was the one to break it. "Grrh…fine. Bloody hell, fine. Malacath's balls, what a day this has been…"

Pyrus felt rough hands grab him, hoist him up and drape him over a massive shoulder. The pain swamped him, and he was certain he actually passed out for a while before regaining enough strength to become aware of his surroundings—only they'd changed. He didn't feel like he was outside anymore—he heard running water fading behind him, and sunless darkness embrace him. By the way his captors' footsteps were bouncing off the walls, they were in some sort of tunnel, and it felt like they were going deeper. Pyrus strained to open his eyes, to move, to do anything—but whatever spell the Nord had cast on him was doing its work. He might as well have been dead, only his ghost was finding it difficult to escape from its mundane form and escape to the heavens.

He almost wished he was. The burns were getting hotter. His blood hurt. He wanted to pass out again and escape the agony for however short a while he was permitted.

Eventually he stopped trying to divine his changing environment—he heard a blend of unfamiliar voices, more footsteps under him, and then he was shrugged off the bearing shoulder and rested on what felt like a fur-lined cot. His robes were undone and cold air blasted his feverish skin, and for a moment his head was cleared enough to hear a low whistle. "Jor'd be jealous of this."

Then, after gods only knew how long, Pyrus felt liquid touch his lips, and trickle down his throat. _Firesbane,_ he thought, and for the first time in his life he was glad to taste the disgusting brew again. Almost instantaneously the aches and agony went away, and the pain simmered to an almost non-existent state. Pyrus breathed easy for the first time in hours.

Then came a new voice above his head, one hard with authority. "All right, Helena. Let him up."

His paralysis lifted—the spell had been lifted. Pyrus's eyes snapped open. He was staring at a dark cracked stone ceiling, tinted faintly orange with the glow of candlelight nearby.

He sat up quickly. His room might as well have been a cell, only there were no bars on the door—just several unsmiling faces of several people heavily armoured, and armed, who stood there watching him. One was that of a golden-brown-haired Breton woman with a weathered, stony countenance, her mouth set in a hard line, her gauntleted fists planted on her hips. Instantly Pyrus knew she was the figure of authority in whatever establishment he'd been borne into.

Pyrus's attention wandered to the taller Nord woman who stood beside her leader—a faint greenish hue was fading fast between her fingers. _The spellcaster_ , he knew, and frowned at her…unusual appearance. Hers was not a traditional Nord's face, but something almost…elven. Her leaf-green eyes were slanted and tinted gold, her brow broad and handsome.

He tried not to look too hard at the rest of them. Instead he turned back to the Breton woman and demanded, "Where have I been taken?"

She blinked once. "That is not necessary for you to know."

"I deserve to know." Pyrus swung his legs over the cot, though he didn't feel quite strong enough to mount his feet and look down at these strangers. "I didn't ask to be taken prisoner." He shot the Nord spellcaster a suitably fierce glare, which she instantly returned.

"We didn't ask for your presence in our territory," the Breton returned, and she folded her arms. "Now you'll answer whatever we have to ask you, or you'll be spending a few nights with the dragonman down in the Trench."

Pyrus didn't know what this Trench was, but the way her lip curled suggested she had no love for the dragon cause, either. "Listen," he said, seizing what he sensed was a dangling opportunity. "You and I may never be friends but our enemy is still the same." His robes were still undone. He gestured to the scars angrily and added, "These weren't earned currying favour with the dragons." _Just defying one of their lords._

"I gathered that," said the Breton crisply. "Now state your name and your business in the stonehold. It's quite possible we merely got off on the wrong foot."

Pyrus drew himself up, as tight-lipped as his inquisitor. "I will not subject myself to interrogation like a common bandit," he growled, regaining some of his High Elven dignity.

The Breton's brow quirked. "Would you rather we extract our answers from you, forcefully?"

"Just answer her questions," the Nord mage said coolly. "It's easier on all of us."

Pyrus scowled, although frankly he was in no mood to resist for much longer. He just needed to get out of here and resume his quest, and get back to the egg. Clearly it wasn't as safe as he thought, if there were madmen like these running about _Golgevild_ like proud pariahs. So he let out the brooding tension in his lungs and said carefully, "My name is Greatfire. I was a student at the College of Winterhold." He wasn't certain if he'd return, although it was probably safer to tell half-truths than whole.

"Was," the Breton echoed. "What happened?"

Now it was Pyrus's turn to curl his lip. "I left. On my own accord."

"You were kicked out?" the Orc guessed, and his tusked mouth split into a broad grin.

"No." This, at least, was true. "I. Left. I could return if I wanted."

"So why don't you?" the Orc demanded, abruptly hostile again. "Leave us all in peace and be all the better for it."

"Rogghart." The Breton woman turned to him. "You do not speak. I will determine his place to ours without interruption."

The Orc dropped his eyes. "Apologies, Grandmaster."

"Good." The Breton turned back. "Now tell me how you received those burns."

Pyrus sneered at her. "An experiment went drastically wrong."

Her eyes were steel. "Now tell me what really happened."

"It's none of your concern." Pyrus wrapped himself in his robes.

"It is when a Dragonlord is concerned."

Pyrus stiffened, and then slowly turned away. "I've no idea—"

"I have contacts across the entire province, you know," the 'Grandmaster' proclaimed flatly, "including in Winterhold—what the _dov_ name _Felniirgevild_. Would you believe that I've heard the most interesting stories told to me from there? Apparently a brash young mage named Greatfire was so bold and so stupid as to challenge Dragonlord Vylornar to the death. My contact witnessed the fight, of course—half of Winterhold did." There was a responding sneer in her words, one that made Pyrus's skin burn in shame of the memory. "So it intrigues me when this College mage, whom the Firestorm is said to have slain—for he destroys all who dare oppose him—appears to have come before us, adorned in his foolishness."

Pyrus chose not to answer.

"You survived him." The Breton's voice had softened, ever so slightly, yet enough for Pyrus to lift his head in mild astonishment. "You survived Vylornar, when so few—if any—have."

Pyrus looked away, although the hostility had melted from the room. He even wondered if those present were studying him with respect.

"You are correct, then," said the Breton, more decisively. "That does indeed make us—well, let's not go so far to say we're friends, but we do share the same enemy. Nonetheless, there is still the matter of your business here in the hold."

Pyrus started with anger. "My business is my own!"

"Your business will be ours, if you don't want to spend the next few months in the cells keeping our new prisoner company." Her brow furrowed deeper, her dark stare uncompromising. "We have our reasons to be suspicious, outsider. Forgive us if we appear inhospitable. Tell us what business you have in the hold, and if we are satisfied it does not concern us, then you will be permitted on your way, provided you never return to this area again. For your own safety. We do not take intruders lightly."

For a moment Pyrus was speechless with fury—and then terror. He hid it well enough from them in that he averted his eyes again, but he feared what they might do to him if they learned he had in his possession (well, formerly) a dragon's egg. He could imagine what sort of conclusion they'd draw about him, unfriendly as they were. They could never know—nor could they know his quest.

"I come," he began cautiously, "I come seeking…knowledge."

"Of what?" the Nord woman asked.

"Dragons."

He allowed the statement to sink through their skulls before Pyrus carefully continued. "I find the College rather lacking in tomes and texts about dragon lore. I decided, after too many hours of fruitless study, that the best way for me to learn more about these cruel creatures, is for me to understand them personally for myself. This is after Vylornar humbled me before his followers. Afterward, I vowed that never again would I be a victim of their scorn. I had hoped that the libraries in _Frilingul_ might have yielded something useful."

He wondered if they believed him. He watched the Breton woman exchange long looks with an old silver-haired Altmer who stood at her shoulder. He was the only one present who was not adorned shoulder to foot in blue-black armour—armour, Pyrus realized, that he could almost recognize…that he could place having seen only hours before…

"We have some of what you seek," said the 'Grandmaster'. "The dragons are no friends of ours, either. I'll have Rendal copy some of our texts for you. However—" Her eyes narrowed again. "—you are to take these texts straight to the College, and nowhere else. If you chose to leave on your own accord, you may certainly choose to return there. I will hear from my contacts in Winterhold when you return, and believe me, you will be sorry if you do not."

Pyrus fought down the growl building in his throat. Did she think him some mindless servant retrieving information to further the Arcanaeum's shelves? The audacity she had to threaten him, too! "It depends," he said through gritted teeth, "how much I will have learned. I must understand dragons in a certain way before I will return."

"Oh?" said the Breton. "And what angle is this?"

There was a long pause, in which Pyrus considered how to phrase his next words. Then: "Wyrms," he said.

They were quiet, waiting for him to explain himself.

"I find it wise," Pyrus said, "to understand the enemy in their youth, to have a chance of understanding them when they are grown."

"You can never understand a dragon's true motives, Greatfire," the 'Grandmaster' said coldly. "They can be as treacherous as they are powerful. Nonetheless, I can't blame you for wanting to understand. Knowledge is key when strength fails." Her eyes never left his as she answered, and Pyrus fell under the impression that she was scrutinizing him, weighing his every word for honesty or deception. It was one he immensely disliked, and he made a point to not stare too long into her unyielding countenance.

"We will give you as much as we can spare," the Breton woman went on, and quite abruptly Pyrus became aware that only she remained in the doorway—the others had somehow soundlessly and unobtrusively departed. "Then you must go and never return—and you will go straight back to the College. My contact will send word when you have arrived there safely. This sort of information may fall into the wrong hands if you are careless."

Pyrus hissed. "I am not careless."

"Then you should have no trouble meeting my demands."

"I'd meet them better if I had an idea of who was threatening me," Pyrus growled, and stood. Feeling had returned to his limbs, and he almost felt strong enough to summon flame into his palms, if need be.

The armoured Breton was barely intimidated. Indeed, Pyrus still felt quite shrunken, despite her having the smaller stature. "I'm afraid my name isn't yours to ever know, Greatfire," she said with unmanning pleasantness. "Just know that we are particularly dangerous, my fellows and I. It is most unwise to cross us."

The image of the dead dragon appeared in Pyrus's mind—the archer on the road—the matching armour. Pariahs for certain, only a kind that took him by awe. _These_ were the dragon killers, and like the Raiders in the east, they were a determined force who dared to resist against the oppression. He doubted she would have been too happy for him to make such bold conclusions, however—if he knew too much, he suspected he wouldn't be allowed to leave, lest the dragonmen find these outlaws.

Feigning ignorance was the most sensible way to go.

He nodded and, reluctantly, added, "Thank you for the firesbane."

The 'Grandmaster' turned away. "You will stay here until Rendal is finished," she said. "If you attempt to leave, we will make sure you never see the light of day again—likewise if you dare to return if you are freed."

She opened the door.

"Am I your guest or your prisoner?" Pyrus snarled.

The Breton's shoulders set, and almost in a growl she whispered, "While Alduin reigns, we are _all_ prisoners—but only some have the courage to rattle their chains."

She took her leave. The door shut heavily. Pyrus sank back into his cot, and thought.

 _It cannot be this easy._

Since when was anything?

He scowled. _These folk are close-quartered. They will not give away their secrets. No doubt they will only pass on what I already know. They do not trust me, and nor I them. However…_ their guarded nature suggested something to him, and the more Pyrus thought over it, the more he determined that there was more than general hatred between these armoured killers and the dragon cause. There was a way they said 'dragon', as he said 'Vylornar'…a nemesis beyond all.

 _And there are few, very few, who dare to speak the World-Eater's name aloud._

So it came to him—they'd mentioned a 'Trench', a dragonman captive…Pyrus flexed his wrists, felt magicka stirring in his blood, and wondered how well he could still perform the one illusion spell he'd ever bothered to learn.

 **d|b**


	44. XXXXIII - Hofkiin-Dovaar

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

The town fringing the great sweeping golden plains of the midlands had a most unsavoury name. _Hofkiin-Dovaar_ , the dragons had called it; Home of the Servants of Dragonkind, as was everyplace else. Still mounted, Nurr surveyed it with distaste, and pondered whether it was safe for him to slip inside and grab some mead to last him across the province.

The setting sun soaked the settlement in scarlet-streaked amber, and cast great indigo shadows across the grasslands. It would have looked nice in a painting, if Nurr had cared for that sort of thing. His bad mood had only grown worse as he left the stonehold behind. It wasn't because he didn't know the land—on the contrary, he knew this land almost too well, because, well, because of what he'd been before Emilyn had taken him in.

His head hurt. Nurr nudged his destrier down the hill and massaged his temples while it picked a safe route down the slopes. He definitely needed a drink. He hadn't travelled outside the Reach for years. He would have liked it if he'd never left the confines of the gritty stone highland territory again. Still, nobody got everything they wanted in life.

But he'd get his mead. Hopefully.

As an unspoken precaution, Nurr was to avoid civilization as much as possible, survive off his own rations, and ride as hard and fast as possible to the east where his gods-damned clients were surely awaiting his arrival. Travellers tended to be questioned these days, and the incident in Eagle's Rest one and a half months ago had been too close a call. He was also certain to draw attention. Argonians were a common sight enlisted in dragonman patrols, but Khajiit were few and far in all parts of Tamriel. The simple-minded townsfolk would not stop talking about him if they caught sight of his tail or whiskers.

He wondered if he was just being an idiot, riding towards unfriendly population, even if it was on the outskirts of the most populous territory in Skyrim. Then again, he was parched—and Nurr was damned if he was going to go fight a war for some outcast prince without a mouthful of mead to help him get there.

Besides, he consoled himself, _Hofkiin-Dovaar_ was a village that devoted itself to providing resources for their mortal overseers, rather like Hillhaven and Silverhome, found at various other points in the same great hold. Isolated so far from the great cities, dragonmen didn't tend to settle there in great number. It would be simple enough to conceal himself from them, and innkeepers had grown out of the habit of asking too many questions of their patrons.

Just a drink, nothing more. He'd ride on through the night and find some old animal den to shelter in when he was too tired to think straight.

The streets were cast in deep purple shadows as the rough earth turned to worn grey cobble under the horse's hooves. Nurr sank deeper into the saddle, growling displeasure as his cramped body ached in response—in particular, his tail, which he'd wrapped around one leg in order to conceal more easily under the folds of his cloak. He'd never had to ride like this in the Reach, which was one reason why he already regretted leaving the highlands behind. His hood was deep enough to completely shroud his face, especially in the dim light. His voice…nothing he could do about that. He'd just have to speak as little as possible, and be on his way swiftly. He wondered what Emilyn would have to say if she discovered he'd stopped in a village to drink.

His head continued to pound. He'd made his mind.

There were a few villagers lingering in the streets that he passed; they stopped and stared, some gaping, others with closed expressions. Nurr tried to imagine himself through their eyes; a hooded cloaked man approaching the village from the west, who journeyed alone. _Perhaps they think me a freerider_ , he snorted. Well, that wasn't an entirely dumb way to go about it. Bit of a fool façade, however. He lacked the telltale pin.

No point pretending to be an imposter, he supposed, as the inn drew into sight. He'd leave that to the spies.

Nurr pulled up outside and gladly dismounted, grunting as aches shot up and down his stiff legs, and his tail grew only stiffer as he unwound it. It would hide well enough under the cloak, so long as he took a care not to let the pale tip stick out from under it. Fusozay swung heavily at his hip; he was still getting used to walking around wearing the thing, although he didn't trust it off his person now that he was deep into enemy territory and far from help and home. He lashed the reins around the railing, took his bow down from its saddle sheath and hooked it over a shoulder. He wouldn't entrust his primary weapon to a shaggy beast more interested in grass than safeguarding its rider's possessions, so he'd take it in with him, and hope none of the villagers were in a brawling mood.

With this in mind, he crossed the verandah and stepped inside.

His first immediate thought was the profound murkiness of the place. Fires burned in two separate hearths, and where the firelight didn't fall the shadows and thick and black. There was a profound stench of smoke and timber, so strong that Nurr's whiskers burned and he fought down the urge to cough. Almost every table was occupied. There were more people than he'd previously thought—or perhaps it was village custom for everyone to congregate in the taverns at evenfall. Eagle's Rest hadn't been much different; but Eagle's Rest had been a good deal smaller. It was noisy in here as well. Several stopped their conversations to study the new arrival to their quiet little town. A few kept staring, and Nurr angrily glared them off before he proceeded moodily to the bar. _Imagine their excitement if they discover I have fur, and these folk won't keep their mouths shut._

The innkeeper was quite preoccupied with cleaning a tankard, so much that he kept his eyes firmly stuck on the crockery in his hands. "What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, rubbing vigorously at a spot on the cup's rim.

"Six bottled ales."

The fellow looked up with a slight frown, the rag idle in his hand. Was it the voice? Nurr lightly drummed his metal-shod fingers on the counter.

"Traveller?" the innkeeper guessed, and received silent affirmation. "Don't get many of those round here," he said amiably, resuming his cleaning of the tankard. "Patrols, mostly. Then again, a freerider passed through here a day or so ago…"

"Six bottled ales," Nurr repeated, slightly impatiently.

"Ah yes! Forgive me, sir." The tankard was set down with the rag drooping out of it. Nurr stared at it blankly as the innkeeper ducked down behind the bar and dunked several slightly dusty bottles on the bench. Nurr wordlessly passed a fistful of coins across the counter. "You'll be staying the night, I take it?" the innkeeper inquired, accepting the transaction.

"No." Much as he was loathe to say it—another night's ride was his regrettable fate.

"A meal, at least, then? My lads just butchered a sheep and the meat should be near done—"

The thought of hot fresh mutton was deeply tempting. Nurr almost said yes, but persuaded himself right at the last moment. _You're risking exposure just buying a drink, you thickhead. Just an ale, remember? You can survive off bread and salted meats for however long you need to._ "No," he muttered, also regrettably. He scooped the drinks into his arms and turned for the door.

Almost immediately his aches and pains grew near overwhelming. He was tired. He needed to sit down on something that wasn't going to lurch and flex under him, just for a minute or so. The inn was full. He could avoid notice, down a bottle, convince himself to get back on the bloody horse, and keep riding, and nobody would have to know any better. The world wasn't going to end in an extra few minutes' absence of his being with Kaarn.

It almost gave Nurr satisfaction, plonking himself heavily on a bench beside the door, deliberately delaying for a drink. Just _one_ drink, after all. He set the rest of the bottles at his feet, kept one in his grasp, and uncorked it. He sighed at the scent that rose out of it. It was most welcoming. The taste was…well, it tasted burnt, but alcohol was alcohol in whatever form or texture, and the throbbing in his head began to subside. _Much better._

A good thing, too, as a table a few away suddenly burst into raucous laughter. Nurr glowered in their direction. A large communion of farmers and farmhands appeared to be gathered there, men and women alike, howling with derision over something one of them must've said. _Nords,_ Nurr grimaced, turning back to the comforting company of his ale. Finally, a chance to drink without interruption. He half expected Lio to come bursting through the doors and drag him back to Sky Haven. He almost wished that would happen, or was he already drunk? Nurr hoped so. He drank deeply once more.

The bench under him protested as a second heavy figure descended his rear end on top of it.

Nurr peered at this unwelcome visitor, and turned away in disgust. One of the farmers from the happy table. "You're a long way from home, Brother," the Nord said, so pleasantly that anyone who was in earshot wouldn't have paid him a second glance.

Only Nurr, whose attention was caught. The farmer was a ragged sight. Lined from the sun, skin browned and coated with dirt and dried sweat, hair shaggy and quite untamed, his clothes fraying and patched in places and just as stained with filth as the rest of him—and under that, a spark of familiarity Nurr had almost missed.

"You stink of dirt," Nurr muttered, by way of greeting.

"You stink of horse. And old stone. And furtiveness." The Nord tapped his nose and smirked. "It calls into question who has the sharper nose, eh, Moony?"

 _Ejollnor_. One of Emilyn's many merry masqueraders. Nurr had quite forgotten about his wayward Brother, who spent his service with the Blades in perpetual disguise, sending monthly reports about the happenings of the area he'd been chosen to monitor. He'd certainly perfected the look of the farmhand, to the point when Nurr was quite sure he'd fool even a soldier looking actively for a fugitive. Then again, spies were trained to master the art of subterfuge and discretion. Dragoneye couldn't unravel them as it did any other man.

"So why are you travelling?" Ejollnor inquired.

Nurr almost argued that he wasn't—which was daft, and he wasn't a good liar in any case—then realized that the spy had already ascertained this. _Goddamn those buggers._ He answered, just to delay, "That's classified."

"Hah!" Ejollnor barked. "Now try again." His eyebrow went up. "I'm not asking twice."

That he never did. Nurr was recalling him quite well. One of the Order's later recruits, he was bladed well after he'd left adolescence behind, and almost immediately packed off to the midlands. That had been over ten years ago, when Nurr had only just been prenticed to Gelwin. How time flew.

"You've made yourself comfortable here, at least," he pointed out, smirking. Ejollnor would pass for a beggar by Blade standards—the sentries might not believe him if he one day came trooping to the door asking to be let in.

"Bah." Ejollnor waved a dismissive hand, which was gnarled and calloused. "A decade and more of playing this charade, all to further our cheery brotherhood. Suffice to say, the ruse is working. Nobody here suspects the slightest. I've perfected the part of the oafish farmhand with just enough intelligence to swing a pickaxe. These fellows—" He gestured to where he'd been seated earlier. "—don't even have a clue I'm literate."

"Don't blame them," Nurr remarked, "I didn't, either."

A fist slammed into his shoulder, then recoiled with a strangled growl. "I forget," Nurr smiled, holding back his laughter. "I should warn you I'm not quite as soft as you remember me to be."

Ejollnor shook his knuckles out. "Bugger you, cat."

"Bugger me? I've killed more of the horrors than you could ever."

"Figured as much," Ejollnor muttered, with a grin. "Why else would've Gelwin taken a liking to you? Of course…" His face fell suddenly. "Poor bastard…that luckless hunt some years back, am I right? And Vaena? Damned pity, I liked those Elves…How's their girl doing? Banviel? She been bladed yet?"

Nurr nodded. "Some years ago. She's a formidable fighter." He wondered if Ejollnor knew about the hunting of Lotjoorkriid. He wondered if Ejollnor was aware just how close Banviel had come to the death the Blades had trained their very hardest to avoid…

"Like you, I bet," Ejollnor said lightly, quite unaware. "Been far too long since I've actually shared a decent conversation with a Brother—and the last one I'd thought I'd be having one with is you, you surly old soul. Lightened up at last, have you?"

Nurr grinned. "That's still a matter of debate."

"At least you're talking now, not snapping people's heads off. Lionus was the only one you could tolerate. Speaking of which, how's that pompous Imperial priss doing? Last I remember of him, he was grooming himself for command." Ejollnor chuckled idly as he took a sip of ale—Nurr only realized then that one of his five remaining bottles was missing, and glowered darkly at the Nord for a good long while into the continuing conversation. "He murdered our lady Emilyn yet?"

"You're old," Nurr snorted. "We've all grown up."

"So you'd say," Ejollnor frowned. "So you have a few kills under your boot. You're no longer green at this game of shadow war. It's blatant you haven't ridden from hiding to catch up with an old friend. Get the hint?" He folded his arms. "You also haven't answered the question."

Nurr considered delaying this further, but one ale wasn't enough to get him suitably as drunk as he'd have liked—and his still-clear mind protested against delaying the inevitable. Spies were irritatingly good at extracting what they needed even from shut books like him. He drank some more, briefly cast his senses about to ascertain there were no eavesdroppers, then muttered, "I'm riding east."

Ejollnor hid his surprised grunt quite well. His eyes showed it, though. They brightened considerably with interest magnified tenfold. "How far?"

"To the hold."

"Bugger me." The Nord's bristling brow furrowed deeper. "Into the thick of the happy conflict?"

Nurr curled his lip. "Guess." He glowered out the corner of his eyes. "It's not by choice, either. He asked for the best of us." He jerked his chin. "Here's her response."

Ejollnor emitted a low whistle. "You _have_ come far in this shadow war. Best slayer, then?"

"So they say."

"Clearly so, enough for our lady to send you gallivanting off to the east to serve that poor fucked bastard."

"Aren't you patriotic," Nurr sneered.

"Aren't I just," Ejollnor snapped. "I believe in wars that can be won. That can have some victory. I've heard things about those screw-headed 'Nords of Old'. They believe in a dead past. You can't bring back what's dead. Doing so is considered a vile act of nature, or from what I've gathered about necromancy and conjuration magic and all that shit." He leaned on his elbow; Nurr could smell the liquor on the other's breath. "I don't care what that boy promised you or Emilyn—and I don't care what he told you. Or what he told our lady to make her take leave of her senses and give the order. He is fighting a war that will take its followers so down into the darkness there's a good chance that nobody is going to come out of this alive."

To this grim statement, Nurr laughed raucously. "If only I'd had _that_ to say—maybe the argument would've ended differently."

Ejollnor's mirth was very brief. "What exactly does he want from you?"

"Well now, someone smells furtive."

"Geld your smart-aleck and answer me."

Hard to ignore a direct demand. Nurr sighed. "Stormbear needs a good killer to teach his men the finer art of putting down the sky demons."

"How the fuck did he know of us?"

"Rendal claims they've long memories."

"How'd you get the message?"

"What makes you so interested?"

"It's my duty, especially where my Brothers are concerned," Ejollnor snarled. "Now tell me."

No more pleasantries; all business. Nurr responded then on as such. He explained about the messenger and Ejollnor exerted his agitation by knotting his thick brown fingers several times over. Finally he said, "The message, thrust straight into the hands of our Grandmaster. The messenger strode into the Temple like he knew it. We ensured that we remained hidden from the knowing of our enemies—from all outside, who were not like us."

"Great place to hide, in a tomb our traitor lord's well aware of."

"You can't remember, can you? Then again, you never were Rendal's favourite. Remember that the Dread activated the Temple with his blood; the Apprentice changed the seal's ancient magic to protect the new Order. Dragon blood persists in the stonework of the Temple. It gives it natural immunity from dragon interest; their instinct naturally directs them away from what their senses register as marked territory. It will warn if intruders pay an uninvited visit. In particular, it will recognize the Dread, the only one outside that can show the way in to his minions. The Temple will seal itself if he dare returns."

Nurr shook his head. "Whatever. That's not important."

"Yes it is, you dolt. How is it that a messenger from the easthold finds his way inside like he's been there before? Did anyone recognize him?" Nurr shook his head. "Perhaps one of our own has turned on us," Ejollnor scowled. "I haven't had any word from those stationed in _Jergevild_ settlements for quite some time."

"Someone's getting paranoid," Nurr said. "Stormbears makes a habit of taking people by surprise, in both good and bad ways. The former general, executed in a _vaxnilz_ in the heart of the province, by a freeflier of a dragon—now that surprised people. Ulfric would never have let himself been taken alive, anyone that knew an inkling of that man's reputation would've known that."

"He spoke," Ejollnor muttered, voice so low only Nurr's sharp ears could hear him. "Before he died, he stood up and addressed the witnesses of his death. I was there—forewarned by a contact in _Nidrinnilz_ —I went to see if it was true and it was. The big bastard looked death straight in the eye and died without fear."

"Everyone dies afraid," Nurr growled.

"Ahh, you should've heard him, Brother. Bet that old bear's speech will go down in history."

"Then it was a rally."

"To whom? The Skyrim folk?" Ejollnor laughed dryly. "Look about you, Moony. Take a good look. Every man and woman here, their ancestors suffered in ways we try not to think about too much. The Night of Silence was the first crippling blow. It boosted people's incentive for a good while, got people unifying and fighting like nothing anyone would've expected—Dominion allying with the Empire—Stormcloaks singing a peace treaty with the Forsworn—Hammerfell and High Rock becoming the Merigard—but the fact remained; the war was painfully one-sided. Every resistance was crushed into the dirt. Every one of them. Those that fought died. Those that didn't fight ran, and died. Those that hid were found and killed or enslaved. When it was over, it was over. The dragons crushed all spirit from us poor ephemeral mortals. You can't fight a god."

Nurr looked at him flatly. "Aren't we? Aren't those poor bastards in the east?"

"We've been fighting this enemy since before the first Dragon Wars, moon-brains. _Our_ ancestors actually _won_ against those titans. They slew them all in Akavir and pursued the survivors across the Sea of Ghosts to continue the hunt in Tamriel. We know this enemy." Ejollnor shook his head. "The Stormbears don't. They're a hundred years old—maybe more, if there's any truth to these rumours I've been hearing about their lineage—and maybe they've never stopped fighting, but the dragons can't be met unless on equal terms. They're far too unfairly powerful, too ancient, and time is on their side."

"That's why they want me. To teach them just that." Nurr grimaced. "To further the crusade. Emilyn believes they're our last hope at pushing through the dragons."

"No." Ejollnor's brow furrowed deeper. "What she really meant is that Kaarn Stormbear is the last leader mortalkind will look to if he succeeds in what none have succeeded in doing since the Fourth Age—strike fear into his enemies' hearts."

Nurr contemplated this. There seemed some truth to his Blade Brother's perception of this war, and certainly a conflict to mull over. Nonetheless, ultimately his instruction had been given, and he was to follow it on what honour he possessed as one of the Order. He supposed he could mope all he wanted, but there was nothing to change, and nothing worth changing yet. He drained the dregs and set the emptied bottle at his feet, faintly woozy.

"Do you believe what she believes?" he asked.

Ejollnor's smile was without joy. "Our lady remains the rock upon which our Order is structured. I protest right from the start, but there's nothing either one of us can do when the order's been given. I don't like the suspicions surrounding this, though." He looked hard at Nurr. "I've heard far too much concerning Dragonlords in this last month. Nothing feels like chance or luck anymore. Feels like everything has been written, and all our fates are decided. This story is ended before it's begun and we are just going to fill the covers."

Nurr was in no mood for prophetic omens. "Tell me what you've heard," he growled, leaning his elbows on his knees. He supposed this must have been the 'recent events' Emilyn had mentioned while persuading him to respond to the missive.

"I've heard a lovely jewel has come into the hands of your client." Ejollnor's profile shone with excitement. "A _dragonjewel_ , at that. Heard of this tale? It's become a fast favourite here in _Hofkiin-Dovaar_ , unsurprisingly."

Nurr shrugged. "Remind me, if you'd be so kind."

"My contact in _Nidrinnilz_ confirmed the story; Kaarn hired a thief to pick the pretty pendant from around a Dragonlord's neck; the eldest Rendingstone still in possession of its power. Now it sits around a Raider's neck instead. I can imagine that to prove useful in times to come, don't you?"

Nurr didn't deny he was deeply impressed. "Can he use it?"

"You'll have to tell me if any of this is true. I just have word from _very_ distant friends. You're going to be seeing all the fun." Ejollnor's grin was back, though it still seemed somewhat strained. "I also have heard from this freerider that trotted cocky as a thistle-prick through our modest streets—some halfwit Imperial called Marcus or something, can't recall clearly—Kaarn's withdrawing his forces from the mountains. He's moving his forces down south to the greenwood."

"That's rather direct," Nurr observed, wondering why the dragons hadn't managed to find him prior to this if all the common people knew his every position.

"You said yourself, Stormbears are full of surprises. The boy's doing his best. What in Nirn draws him to the greenwood…crawling with feral dragons and gods know what else…from all I've gleaned; he's leading his men to their deaths. Or maybe he just wants to be an idiot and martyr himself for all of Skyrim's benefit. Well, we have enough of those all across the damned continent, what difference will another few make to the populace?"

"A good story, perhaps."

Ejollnor roared with laughter. "Damn straight, too!" He calmed down and surveyed his cloaked companion fondly. "You've grown up, little Brother. I can see why our lady sent you. Kaarn's expecting a dragon slayer, but I'm certain beyond certain that he's not expecting you."

"I believe that was the intention," Nurr remarked, "as the dragons won't be, either." He recalled something. "The greenwood, you said. South. Even further south than that twisted wood, the fires are dying down."

Ejollnor caught on quick. His shock nearly slipped through. " _He's_ returning?"

Nurr nodded, awaiting the Nord's reaction.

Ejollnor looked at the floor, mulling over this information long and hard. "Does Kaarn know?" he muttered after a time.

"As far as we know, no."

"The World-Eater wings his way back north, to the seat of his twisted empire," Ejollnor brooded, half to himself. "He won't be pleased with what he discovers, Moony. We've grown bold in his absence. The dragons will rally with his return. The bear's noble charge will falter, I can promise you that. Alduin cannot be stopped, much less killed." The Nord looked across under a deeply furrowed brow. "Not even you, slayer."

"No," Nurr agreed, "I suppose not." There were always limits, and even by dragon standards, Alduin was nothing ordinary. "Nonetheless," he rasped, "Kaarn's played his hand, and even me in my surly skepticism can't protest that his gambles have a habit of paying off." _He's in possession of a Rendingstone and an army however small, and soon enough he'll have a Blade at his side. I wonder what else he'll have by the time the tide turns._ _Maybe a few kills of his own._

"Makes no difference," Ejollnor growled. "Be cautious, my friend. These Raiders might have taken it upon themselves to repeat history, but they cannot be trusted. They are hard men, strange men. They are not your brothers."

Nurr's head was starting to hurt again. He reached for another bottle, then decided against it. He'd have to get back on the bloody horse at some point, and riding drunk was about as dangerous as night travelling got.

"We'll get on nicely then," he muttered. "I don't have much love for my brothers."

Ejollnor leaned forward. "Only those that are just as mad as you," he grinned, and despite himself, Nurr grinned too.

 **d|b**


	45. XXXXIV - The Lightless Road

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

For five days they'd followed the road winding south across the province, making pleasant conversation as though they weren't riding to the most dangerous place to be in the entirety of Tamriel, but merely taking their horses for a walk. Viper had expected dragons to come swooping down on them at every turn, even in the darkness of night, but the journey went by undisturbed and uninterrupted. She was certain that the Listener and the mysterious beast she rode upon had something to do with it.

Never had Viper been with such a peculiar woman. She'd heard tales of the Dark Brotherhood both as a child in the form of mismatched rumours and speculation, and a woman running contracts for the Thieves Guild, and none of them quite described the Listener. She was easygoing, cheerful without ceremony, quick to smile. She portrayed a continuous aura of serenity. Viper couldn't quite find the right word to describe her, until as they passed beneath the shadow of the vast Throat of the World, its pinnacle scraping the sky and hidden in a veil of mist, she decided that like this old mountain the Listener was ancient.

They swapped stories of themselves as they rode; unlike her Brothers and Sisters, the Listener seemed quite ready to talk about herself; she didn't fear they'd be overheard by less desirable sorts, and gradually Viper adopted a similar confidence. She learned that the Listener had witnessed events that would only be history now; the Altmer assassin had heard of the sacking of Helgen in its younger days, that ancient mountain outpost that proved the first settlement to fall to the returned Alduin's rage, and visited the smoking ruins for herself, which had never been rebuilt and stood as testament and a warning to the dragons' unchallenged might. She had lived through eras Fourth and Fifth, and survived the purge. She had joined the Brotherhood between those times, when it had suffered a purging of its own, from a betrayal not unlike the kind the Dragonborn had acted upon the world. The only difference, the Listener explained, was that the one that had betrayed them showed remorse, while the Dread showed none. His actions following his turn spoke plainly of that.

Viper told a story of her own; she told the Listener that she'd been born an orphan with no name or parentage to claim for herself, who survived by flitting from town to town, begging and stealing, and escaping when she was caught in the act. For a few years in her childhood she'd come under the care of the wandering alchemist Celandine, where she gained quick mastery of the art of brewing poison. She'd lived in almost every settlement in Skyrim and certainly seen every city. The Listener listened carefully, nodding sympathetically in places, and smiled as Viper concluded her story with her joining the Thieves Guild shortly after her nineteenth birthday.

"At the time it was the best place for a woman to be."

"Out of sight?" the Listener inquired.

Viper nodded. "And for a long time, for many years, I considered Riften my home, my town, its people mine as they were that bootlicker Lanzeel's, warden of the autumnwood." She curled her lip. At least she wouldn't be prone to _that_ adverse sight again. "No longer, though," she frowned, hardening her heart. _I will not come crawling back._

"Home is not an easy place to forget, sweet child," the Listener mused.

"Why isn't it?" Viper turned to her. "I never had a true home. I don't know whether I was born in a brothel or the gutters or a noble's estate, and as long as I can remember I've been alone. You live alone and you grow up strong. There's nobody there to pick you up when you fall, but yourself." Suddenly struck with curiosity, she asked, "Where's your home? Where were you born?"

The Listener closed her luminous eyes as she thought. "It was many years ago," she said. "I was born in Summerset, before the rise of Alinor and the Dominion's fledging, but after the tragedy of Red Mountain in Morrowind. I did not participate actively in the Great War, though a great deal of my noble relatives did so."

"So you lived through that as well," Viper realized, recounting all that she'd heard of that old conflict.

"I was a much younger woman then," the Listener smiled. "I was promised to a man. It was custom for Altmer to marry Altmer, to keep the bloodlines pure; our race was very particular in this regard, especially in our heartland. Unfortunately he fell in the sack of the Imperial City. There were no other young males or widowers of prestigious name worthy of my hand. I sensed it would not last, and it was then I decided to take my leave of Alinor, and journey."

"North?"

"Not quite. A generation passed between the Great War's end and the return of the dragons. I spent that time wondering of my place upon this fair world, for it was fair then, even in its scarred and damaged state the War had left it in. I found myself drawn, most unusually, to Hammerfell."

Viper blinked. It was difficult to imagine this sleek Altmeri assassin in the hot, sweeping sands of the Alik'r Desert. "Why there?"

"It was an alien land, a tempestuous land, and a land that sought freedom from the oppression of the Dominion at the time. Most unusual that I, being what I was, found myself in that land many times throughout those thirty years of unsettled peace. I was not welcomed there, but I was tolerated. It was there I came to understand that Hammerfell had never stopped fighting. Their rebellion grew by the day. It was then that I made my way north, to escape what harm I was certain prejudice would inspire."

The Listener's deep black horse bobbed his head, ears twitching, scarlet eyes rolling. Viper stared at him again, still transfixed by his unnatural appearance.

"Quite on the contrary, you have lived in Skyrim all your life?" asked the Listener.

Viper confirmed. "There was nowhere better—and I wasn't afraid of the dragons…then." She looked away quickly, suddenly ashamed of herself. She'd been terrified a short time ago, and though his face still sifted through her thoughts sometimes, that animal fear she'd had of him had subsided. She'd ridden the length of Skyrim and hardly paid the Dragonlord a thought.

But the journey was ending. They were beneath the Throat of the World, crossing borders in its shadow. They'd taken the road not through the greenwood, as the path was so violent and tangled it would take thrice as long to get anywhere as it would to tread the roads outside it. They'd skirted the sweeping volcanic tundra that was the easthold instead, and would seek passage through the mountain pass that divided the autumnwood from the greenwood. From there, they'd ride into the Jeralls and find their destination, the old fortress of Pale Pass.

At the end of every night's journey to date, when they camped a good half-mile from the road with the smallest of fires to keep the bitter Skyrim chills at bay, Viper had taken it upon herself to pore over the map the Listener had brought with them, learning everything she could about this unfamiliar ground. The map was only ink and parchment, however. Stone and ice would be much more real, and treacherous. But learning the landscape couldn't be too much different from learning a cityscape, couldn't it?

She resolved to do this again when they stopped at daybreak. They settled a short way from the hamlet _Kodaavnahkip_ , well off the road and down a bank hidden in a cluster of maple saplings. The frost crackled loudly under Viper's boots as she slid from the saddle. Endurance, Nevada's stallion, pawed at the frozen earth and snorted, sifting for grazing grass.

"How much further?" Viper asked, as she lashed his reins around a jutting bough.

"The mountain pass is two miles from here." The Listener dismounted, looking southward through the trees, as though she could already see it. "From there we shall find a way into the Jeralls. There is a route, unmapped, a favourite of poachers and bandits. Shadowmere will find it for us." She smiled at her horse and petted him fondly. "He has not failed me yet."

Viper tried not to pay too much attention to the uncanny animal as she loosed the girth and lifted the saddle down from her steed's shoulders. "It feels strange," she confessed, looking about at the trees around them. "I haven't been back here in so long. The autumnhold." _Aarhorvutah_ was much deeper in the hold, fringing the lake, but it was a large city, and the territory it guarded was well populated. She wondered if any Guild contacts had noticed them, although they'd made a point to skirt well clear of civilization, like any sensible traveller should do. Viper was quite sure the guards and the people would find her new attire suspicious, and the Listener…and what conclusions might the Guild make if they saw her clad head to foot in black and crimson?

 _They'll think I'll have abandoned them._ She smiled savagely as she prepared kindling for a fire. _And they'll think rightly, for they abandoned me._ She stuck true to her word; she no longer considered this place her home, and Cenrin…Cenrin could die in a ditch for all she cared. Her Guildmates would soon forget about her, and she'll become just a ghost to them, a hearthside tale to educate the green-handed recruits.

She'd become quite adept at getting a small fire going. It was still quite dark above the canopies, but the fire's glow was bright and cheery. Viper settled herself beside it, warming her fingers. The Listener sat across from her in a meditative position; eyes unfocused, hands upon her knees, and perfectly still. Viper knew better than to interrupt; she'd asked on the first morning of their travels and was answered. Prayer continued even outside Sanctuary. Prayer to Sithis, to the Night Mother, to the Void. Viper left her to it and entertained herself with studying the map once more.

They had come far in five days. The road they'd followed had taken them through what felt like all of Skyrim's holds. From north to south had existed wide, desolate countryside, from fields of snow to those of green-blue tundra and a glimpse of the golden meadows that was the midlands. It had been a clear night that night, and Viper had been able to see so far as the great city of _Ahgelingrah_ , the largest city in all of Skyrim. Miles of farmland on either side of it, the city itself was set upon a great hill so as to overlook its territory—much like a dragon might, she'd thought, as she turned her back to it and followed the road winding southeast.

She traced the way they'd come with a finger—past _Yolkiinnah_ , one of the farm hovels erected in honour of a dragon that had died there—past an old crumbling fortress without a name; until they'd come to the foot of the tallest mountain in Tamriel, where once dwelled the ancient hermits the Greybeards, who practiced the Voice as a means to enlightenment rather than destruction and chaos, or so the story went. The monastery upon the mountain slopes destroyed by the traitorous Dragonborn, each monk's corpse entombed within; the Seven Thousand Steps had not had a pilgrim upon them for a hundred years.

Viper looked thoughtfully at its silhouette, rising grandly above the trees and blotting out the fading stars. Forgetting her companion's prayers, she asked, "Have you ever been up there?"

The Listener opened her eyes slowly and followed Viper's gaze. She shook her head.

"It is a cursed path now."

"How so?" Viper furrowed her brow. "You don't think it's haunted?"

"The power that the dragons command is a magic so profound and powerful that even time may warp to it," said the Listener, most sincerely. "I do not like to think of the residue such magic would leave behind. The Greybeards were incredibly powerful men, attuned to this immense gift, and they were killed. They were but vessels to channel this magic. The vessels broken, the magic leaks, unchecked, untamed, like a savage beast that hungers. I can feel the evilness of its independence and volatility even from here, as far as this." She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the paling sky. "I can hear its instability and feel it in the earth."

Viper shrugged and flicked a twig into the flames. "I get uncomfortable around magic. _Any_ sort," she hinted.

The Listener smiled. "Discomfort is better than fear. If you will never embrace it, you may learn one day to live with it." She gazed thoughtfully into the fire and continued, "My magic is of a deeper kind, the kind that is best unspoken and ever felt, a presence that comes and goes but roots firmly in your bones and your blood. It is an instinct honed to the finest point, with a conscious of his own, that guides with accuracy and the truth that comes of knowing the world."

She stared hard at Viper then. "It is what will guide us in the mountains, in the lair of the enemy. That, and our own common sense. Prepare yourself, my child. We rest for but an hour. We keep riding, and hard. The sooner we infiltrate this citadel in the cliffs, the better our success will be."

"Just an hour?" Viper exclaimed, startled. She was exhausted, she'd been looking forward to a good long nap.

The Listener nodded, unsmiling now. "Prepare yourself," she said again, closed her eyes, and withdrew once more into her meditative stance.

Viper, briefly, was nonplussed. What did she mean, to prepare? Was she not already? Did she mean for the snake to bend its head and pray to gods it didn't believe? And then she understood; _poison_. How could she have forgotten? It was her weapon if nothing else was, and to walk unarmed in the shadow of gods was folly indeed.

So she stirred the fire, unpacked her satchel, and prepared her makeshift laboratory.

She'd done this many times, the last being the cart ride north to Servitude. That Kiss had been her most potent yet; and Viper was hesitant to enhance even this mixture, for a poison was as brittle as it was strong, and the brewing became all the more dangerous. A single mistake could result in instant failure, or a poison with potency that diminished almost before her eyes. No, she must be careful, but she was not afraid. This was her mixture. She knew it from every angle, from the smallest peck of ground root dust to a single golden drop of nectar. She could have done it in the pitch of night, and with the strengthening light piercing the deep dappled shadows of the trees, it was child's play to make it now.

Viper grinned at her own certainty. She hummed _Age of Oppression_ as she prepared.

In less than an hour it was ready, simmering gently. Odourless steam curled lightly from the rim. Viper inhaled, pleased to discover no scent, then tested its texture with a finger. The fire under it was hot enough to sear flesh from bone, but the potion itself was pleasingly cool, and surrendered easily to her touch. It was ready.

Almost.

Viper turned again to her satchel, loaned by the Brotherhood alchemist, and withdrew the final ingredient. Raw essence of nightshade. It was deep green in colour, yet when she uncapped it and tipped four drops into the Kiss, the drops barely sparkled viridescent. The potion itself remained colourless, but when Viper inhaled again, she detected a scent; a wisp of poison bred to kill.

 _A Serpent's Kiss worthy of its name,_ she thought, firmly capping the nightshade phial. She stirred the potion, let it simmer for a full ten minutes, and skated her ladle only upon the skin of the steaming surface. The meagre offering she tipped carefully into a very small black bottle, its glass exterior opaque. She wasted not a drop. There would be enough for a single application, but that was all she ever needed. One kiss, and then she was gone.

 _We'll drive out the Empire and restore what we own…_

The rest of the mixture she emptied carefully into the ground. Only the faintest scent of nightshade lingered in the air after it. Nevada's horse flared his nostrils and jerked his head away.

"Now we continue," said the Listener. Her eyes were open, her posture alert. Viper's weariness seemed to melt away. She stood and nodded. The horizons were lightening, the chill of night was beginning to fade. As they tacked up and mounted, there came the distant cry of dragonsong, haunting in its faraway beauty.

 _With our blood and our steel we will take back our home…_

They went on. Viper ate salted fish and seared venison in the saddle, savouring each mouthful. They'd resupplied themselves as they passed _Yolkiinnah_ , stealing fresh as well as salted meats and a few bottles of mead to wash it down. It had been quite some time since she'd committed petty theft, but it had proven more enjoyable than she'd expected, and the food tasted all the better for it.

The Listener herself ate nothing. Perfectly silent her and her stallion both, they progressed into the mountain pass, and the temperature dropped almost at once. Viper would have been glad never to have heard the crunch of snow underfoot again, but there was no turning back. She huddled into her heavy cloak and made sure she still had command of all her digits. A thief needed her hands. Anyone needed their hands.

 _We're the children of Skyrim and we fight for our lives…_

The bitter winds whistled about them, and the day seemed to darken again. "A snowstorm approaches," said the Listener suddenly. "It will mask our progress. Even a Frost Dragon's eyes cannot help them in a blizzard, much less find what they do not expect to."

Viper drew her cowl closer about her ears and raised the cloth mask over her nose. "And how will _we_ see anything ahead of us?" she inquired darkly. "It is daylight," she was answered. "Better now than at night."

The black horse turned suddenly from the trail, and Viper had no choice but to follow. Already it had become so dark and clouded she'd forgotten where they'd entered the pass. Shivering fiercely under her leathers, she huddled into herself and, much as she'd done during the frenzied night's gallop across the northhold, surrendered herself to the horse.

 _…_ _and when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies…_

The new path they were following sloped sharply uphill. Snow tumbled and turned under the beasts' hooves. Soon they were struggling for every step. Viper clung harder to the saddlehorn, resisting the temptation to look back, fearful of what she might see. It felt they were climbing up the mountains themselves. The bank seemed only to grow steeper with every step. She wished she'd had enough to prepare a frost resistance potion to last the day, but she was almost clean out of ingredients. Every morning of their journey, when they stopped to last out the day, she'd brewed her satchel empty. Only this morning had she chosen to prepare her most infamous mixture of them all. But her pockets were laden and her phials were full; she took some small comfort in that.

And then, after what felt like hours, or years, the ground levelled. Viper at last could straighten in the saddle, although her stiff fingers felt frozen, her limbs like ice. Stoneblossom tea seemed a most welcome idea, if only she hadn't run out of frost mirriam.

"Where are we?" Viper called, over the freezing gales.

The Listener dismounted. Ice-skinned rocks soared about them. "An old trail awaits us here to tread," she said, voice carrying clearly to the other. "It will take us below the highest peaks, and shall take a good deal of the day. The storm cannot delay us. We will make swift progress to our dragon citadel."

As the pale mist settled, a dark cave mouth yawned before them. Astonished, Viper stumbled forward, treading heavily through the snow that rose around her knees. "This wasn't marked on the map."

"Some things are best left unsaid, in any form." The Altmer took the reins of her stallion and led the way inside. Flexing life back into her chilled form, Viper hastened to do the same.

The stone corridor was long and dark—the two words that immediately came to mind. That, and the Smuggler's Hole, which felt like a life-age ago. The smallest sound was magnified and echoed down the passage. It was high and narrow, wide enough for only single file, but the storm outside seemed muted somehow. Soft footfalls thrummed just ahead; for such a large horse, the Listener's creature stepped lightly. Viper could not. She still shivered hard, and it was quite some time before she stopped stumbling over her every step. Her mount trod placidly in her wake, seeming pleased to have escaped the strengthening blizzard.

It was utterly lightless in this corridor. Viper had hoped her eyes to adjust, but they remained stubbornly unable to see a foot in front of her. "A torch?" she called.

"We travel in darkness."

"But we're underground—we can't be seen now."

"Not by the enemy, no. But it is better not to tempt fate. I know the way we must tread, dear child, but I know not of what awaits us—only that where we go, the darkness is our friend and ally. Embrace it now, and it will embrace you in return."

"But what if I fall?" She couldn't dull the sharp fear in her voice.

Calmly, the Listener said, "You won't fall."

Viper tried again a few minutes later. "I can't see a thing and it's so cold I can hardly breathe."

"Eyes should not be the sense you rely upon to guide you in this world, my child. The dragons cherish their sight above all their other senses, and sight betrays them as easily as it rewards them. Your other senses are not so easily tricked. Sound shall always have a source and can be followed to its beginning. Scent lingers in its place from hours to days to months, and tells a story if you know how to decipher it. Touch never lies; it is only your perception of it that defines the sensation experienced. Instinct commands them all, and it is easy to trust in your eyes over what you feel—eyes born to see light and colour and illusions, eyes that are so easily deceived."

"They've done all right for me this far," Viper defended irritably.

"And you were deceived."

The gentle words rang with solemn truth. Viper scowled.

"Learn to trust in your other senses, my child. Learn to connect to them. Allow them to guide you when your eyes have failed you. They will not lie."

Viper remained dubious, but could find nothing else to say. There was nothing else to do, and she didn't know how long this passage would go on, or even how deep into the mountains they led. Fatigue was returning, and it was becoming harder to think straight.

But the Listener's words continued to haunt her, much as they'd done when they'd first spoken in Sanctuary. With nothing better to do, Viper began to pay more attention to the echoes. They were just reflections of sound, made by her and those around her, magnified clearly in its stony setting—yet it seemed to her that they formed a pattern, after some time of careful, mindful analysis. Encouraged, and fascinated, she studied them in greater detail; the way that they resonated, the way she could manipulate the sound by manipulating its beginning, therefore changing its response. The horse's iron-shod hooves clanged loudly in the gloom, persistent and regular as the drum that ensued under every living creature's ribs. She imagined them slapping off the walls she couldn't see, but could otherwise sense enclosing them. She tried to imagine how far this vein would go. Perhaps it would take her to the mountain's heart, beating with echoes that had never died. Or perhaps it would take them all the way to the heart of the world. The trail felt as if it was winding ever so gently downward.

Its direction never changed; this was what she felt. The path might veer slightly left or slightly right, or perhaps it would veer left for many more steps than it would right, or the other way—but it never was quite level. Through the soles of her boots, Viper learned to notice the slight imperfections in the otherwise smooth floor, just enough to provide grip, to assure stability. She wouldn't fall.

All thoughts of firelight had left her mind. Viper found herself enjoying the eternal night that was this darkness, undisturbed and unchallenged. It now seemed wrong to banish this irresistible force with a torch. It was almost like wounding a majestic creature that had done them no ill, but exist in its state many perceived as frightful—perceived by eyes that were so easily fooled, she realized in suddenness.

Darkness had always _looked_ frightening, but what did it do? Eyes lied, and darkness did not. Shadows were illusions, but darkness was pure in its uncompromising truth. It was what it was and there was no more to it. Such revelations rooted in Viper's soul and she continually brooded over them for many hours after she made them, marveling at how she hadn't made such connections before.

Still curious, she asked, "Do all assassins follow your philosophy?"

"It is welcomed in many forms, conscious or not."

"No faith welcomes darkness," Viper said. "Not even the Mistress of Murk; Nocturnal's sphere is shadows and twilight."

"Illusions, death, birth, and treachery."

Viper was startled at the stern certainty in the Listener's voice. "I don't understand."

"Shadows deceive, betray, conceal, treacherous in their inconsistency, easily manipulated and swayed. Even the smallest, feeblest candle flame can change how the shadow appears. Light has always sired them. Without light, there are no shadows. Twilight is the death of day, the birth of night. Eyes bound to light are easily deceived by the instability of the murk that it inspires, as the form of light transcends from the brazenness of the sun to the subtlety of the moon and the stars. Treachery. Nocturnal's sphere is embraced by those that honour her, thieves that suckle from dishonesty, that appear in many forms, many shapes, many ways. Nonetheless, my child, thieves are ultimately bound to light, unwelcome as they find it. Without light, there are no shadows, of which they hold dear to them."

"I still don't understand."

"Thieves are shadows. Assassins are darkness. Understand now."

Viper was about to protest…until it slowly dawned upon her. Thieves were shadows, the Listener had claimed; liars, cheats, dishonest creatures, they were bound to them, the Nightingales most of all, agents of the patron of all larcenists. Shadows she herself had trusted; shadows that betrayed, shadows that were empty, and bound to the light that created them.

While assassins were something else—darkness that did not lie.

"So what breeds darkness, then? Death?" she guessed.

The Listener answered calmly. "The Void. Death is but the bridge between the two. It is a one-way road begun and ended, that all living creatures come to follow. Assassins take from and give to men what they do not want, and so death is as much a part of us as darkness makes our essence. The Void the Dread Father embodies, and through the darkness without reaches out to us. Death the Night Mother matrons, and through the darkness within reaches out to us. This is no faith of ceremony of sermon, but a means of existence. Perhaps this explains what you have learned of our Brothers and Sisters; they are welcome to embrace their different faiths, their different gods, their different ideals; but ultimately, they serve Sithis, the Void, the darkness, because that is who they are. That is how they exist."

"But there are rituals, to a faith you claim has no ceremony or sermon."

"No rituals. Only truth. Every one of our family embraces death, and so reaches into their own inner darkness, before they come to us. They do not have to know the Night Mother to feel her presence and respond to her will. They do not have to understand the Dread Father as they honour him with the souls of those damned to the Void. Death is truth, the ultimate truth. None can escape it."

"None but dragons, and the undead."

"Blights upon creation. Theirs is a beginning with no natural end." Anger crept into the Listener's voice. "But death will come to them, whether they welcome it or not. Death awaits all. Even the world will die one day."

"Eaten by a dragon."

"Ironic, is it not? No wonder the dragons proclaim themselves gods, and rightful overlords of fair Tamriel."

"But perhaps they are," Viper argued, for the hell of it. "They are the only naturally immortal creatures in Nirn, as far as we know."

"They are sired of time and bound to light. They fear darkness, because they know it will never come naturally. It must be forced upon them, every one of them. They are cursed creatures, my child. Their dooms are writ as well as any other beast's; by their own kin, by other creatures, by hunger or thirst or fatigue, death will still come to them—only time, their beginning, will not end them."

Viper shook her head. "So why is it that the whole world relied upon a single man to save them from the eternity of the World-Eater?"

"Because that was the World-Eater's doom. The Dragonborn was his end prophesied across his own beginning. Nothing can escape its end when its end comes, and it makes no difference if they accept or resist it."

"But his end hasn't come. He's still alive. He's cast the whole world into shadow."

"Yes. The Dragonborn has chosen to betray his destiny, but the World-Eater's end has still been written. Be it now, or a thousand years in coming, his doom still stands. He has merely altered how it will come to him—and the darkness shall respond."

"You believe you are the response," Viper frowned.

"I obey the Night Mother's will. My family obeys me. The Void calls for the souls of many Dragonlords."

"And you've failed to deliver. Many times, so I've heard."

"But their dooms remain, and we remain to fulfill them."

"Is that why we're travelling to this citadel in the middle of nowhere?" Viper inquired. "Because all those your Night Mother has deemed die will be gathered in one place?" She almost laughed at the stupidity of it. "The Dragonlords will be there—and all other figures of power in the dragon supremacy. Terrible and tremendous power—vessels of that sky magic that you believe has poisoned the Throat of the World, still in its conduits!"

"When they are gathered in a place of familiarity, their tongues loosen. Wisdom is an assassin's friend, sweet child. The Night Mother has called me here for a purpose and, to the extent of my understanding, this is my purpose." Her smile echoed in her voice. "I stand by what I said. I have read the signs. In my wisdom gleaned from my long years, I am recognizing a pattern, much as I know you have come to recognize the flow of your senses."

"And what is this pattern?"

"Change, Sister-friend. The avalanche begins with one stone. I have told you—this will be the century shall be the one when…

"…the Dragonlords will fall from power," Viper remembered, "by your hand, or by fate's." Skeptical once more, although not quite as much as she might have been, she demanded, "How do you claim to know this, though? That's a bold thing to consider."

"But it will be so."

Viper shrugged and said no more. The argument no longer felt right to continue. Whether she believed any of it…that remained to be seen. Just another thing to brood over in the darkness, and the long walk to the light and the world that awaited them at the end of it. There'd always be an end to the tunnel, no matter how long it might last.

Indeed, the walk felt as familiar as the Hole; when she glimpsed a pale light far ahead of them, she had a sense of what to expect, and was grateful that the long journey was once again over. She began blinking to prepare her eyes for the light that awaited them beyond.

The cold air, heavy on their lungs before, seemed to grow lighter, but sharper. The howl of the wind met their ears once more. The blizzard did not sound as violent as it had been before, but still cold enough to tempt frostbite if one was not careful enough. Viper flexed her limbs vigorously as, finally, the mountain passage ended. Listener and thief emerged into daylight.

They stood before a landscape quite different than the kinds they'd traversed. A sea of mountains lay all around them, drowned in white stained silver and steel grey by the glow of the similarly-coloured sky. Snowflakes whistled past their hoods and the rime-tasting wind clawed unkindly at strands of their hair. The air felt thrice as cold, and soon Viper was shivering again. She pressed herself into her horse's shoulder, grateful for his warmth. The Listener tightened her gloves, drawing her hood over her ears as her amber stare raked the alps about them. Her red-eyed stallion bucked his head with his ebony mane dancing in the wind.

"Where are we?" Viper muttered.

The Listener stepped forward, her high boots sinking deeply into the drift under their feet. "Between Skyrim and Cyrodiil," she said. "The Jeralls are all around us." She looked heavenward. "We must move quickly. There is no time to rest, Sister-friend. Night closes in."

"Already?" Viper exclaimed. Had they not been in the underground pass for only a few hours? It had felt that way, at least…but to have outlasted the day itself…

"Twilight," the Listener observed, and she sounded amused. "Our discussion has brought upon us a challenge, my child. But there is an ill magic boding in this restless air—the storm is not entirely of its own accord. Dragons gather yonder, and we may reach them as nightfall descends and shrouds all sight from the skies." She spun around and swept upon her horse's back, and at once her black steed began to pick a trail through the twisted maze of ice-smothered spires.

The mountains slowly crept past. Somehow descending the mountains felt even more dangerous than climbing up them. Viper concentrated on staying alive while her horse plodded soldier-fashion after his fellow. Despite the mountains being several thousand feet above the ground, the descent took a far shorter time than Viper would have guessed. Soon the mountains were growing above their heads, while the worst of the winds lost the edge of their bite. It became more sheltered, though no less colder, as they drew nearer to earth than sky.

And then—as fading light began to blacken the snow-raining clouds…above the roar of the blizzard came the unmistakable chorus of dragonsong.

Viper barely had time to register it before a vast shape erupted over their heads—wings gleaming like polished ice shot through with violet dapples, obsidian spines as long as swords and thick as sapling trunks sprouting from the ridge of its spine. The bluish-white creature stormed above their heads without a second glance, and vanished into the mist in seconds.

She was entranced by the sight of it. "A Frost Dragon," she whispered. Rarely had she seen them south of the northern holds of Skyrim.

"We are close," said the Listener, frowning in its wake. "That was a sentry. We were not seen, else it would have turned back."

"Why weren't we seen?" Viper demanded, as she sobered from its breathtaking instance. "It was barely fifty feet above us! It would have seen us easily if we could!"

The Listener bent forward and tenderly stroked her stallion's arching throat. "Our progress was unimpeded by beast, bandit, and dragon. Shadowmere is darkness given form, death given life—he came to us from the Void, a servant of Sithis as much as we. All creatures that breathe find they turn their eyes from him as you turn yours from that which gives you fear. Even the dragons do not wish to linger in the presence of the promise that awaits them."

The black horse bobbed his head, as if to agree.

"Is that meant to make me feel better?" Viper muttered, reining her own animal more tightly.

The ancient Altmer smiled and faced frontward once more. "We ride on."

The scape surrendered before them; it felt like no time at all had passed when they came upon an overlook of a steep dale. The Jeralls continued ocean-like below them, reaching beyond to the veiled horizons, but there was a large depression in its midst, as though a whole mountain had been entirely removed from the stretch. In its place lay a collection of fortresses that had fallen into a state of irreparable decay. Broken turrets and towers were strewn about the hilled landscape. White frozen lakes looked solid down to their riverbeds. "Pale Pass," Viper said softly.

"Forlorn in its negligence, and rife with bitter memories of those that had inhabited it," the Listener murmured.

"I heard a story about this place," Viper recalled, slightly ruefully. _One of the many told during that arduous journey I undertook across the midhold._ "A famous conquest made by Talos, when he was still the general of Atmora."

The Listener nodded. "A seat of conquest—it is apt it should be the seat of a council by conquerors now. Look there."

The largest of the forts looked no more than an entranceway leading to a citadel beneath the mountains themselves. A tremendous opening had been made into the roof like a raw, gaping wound—broad enough to easily accommodate a dragon's wingspan.

Viper was surprised. "Inside?"

"So it seems, although not entirely unexpected. This must be a guarded meeting, if they do not wish to be overheard by any aboveground. They do not even trust the storm to shroud their words. However, this still advantages us. They meet in darkness, and so in that darkness we will witness what we shall."

They drew their horses back from the immediate edge. Viper had a queer feeling twisting in her stomach. _It is time for the serpent to visit the dragon once more—for her to slide in their shadows, to listen to their secrets spoken._ She recounted the Dragonlords, Vylornar, Cadmir, Ollos—she remembered their last meeting, the strength that simmered in his wiry arms, the energy that glinted in his crimson eyes, and wondered if he would seem any different when this night she saw him again. _But he will not see me. He will not see me again, until it is too late._

She glanced at the Listener—perfectly impassive. Did she fear them at all? Or had her fear of the dragons aged to its own death? She had witnessed their return, the purge, and lived throughout their reign of fire, amid other tragedies of her lifetime. Perhaps she had outgrown all emotion, or perhaps she no longer cared.

"Tongues are loose in places believed impenetrable." The Altmer climbed down to the snow and opened one of her saddlebags. "But they will not speak our own, I am certain of it. The dragons would not care to speak in the common tongue. We cannot hope to understand them unless we are fluent in their language ourselves."

She withdrew two phials, the glass stained darkest blue by the contents within.

"Fortunately, my Sister has succeeded in breakthroughs at her table. She has lived far longer than I ever shall, and she has learned much in her many years of tireless study. Such is her talent that she has surpassed many boundaries of a master alchemist, one of which is the comprehension of language in itself." She offered one of the bottles to Viper, who took it and turned it over slowly in her hands. "Vernaculum, she calls it. It is a brew most wondrous; and with but a few drops of dragon blood, allows its consumer to unravel even the most portent and alien of tongues."

Astonished, Viper lifted the stopper and analyzed the scents that rose dreamily from its neck. Full of ingredients she couldn't hope to name, and a few that were rare, so rare she almost couldn't name them. She had to note that one of the scents belonged to the dragon's tongue flower, and grinned at its irony. "She'll have to teach me this one," she murmured, impressed. "Vernaculum…and ingesting this will allow us to understand whatever the dragons say?"

"For a time, but for long enough." The Listener approached the rim of the overlook again, and Viper followed. Night had fallen and it was rapidly darkening, and yet the cold was no more than a meagre disturbance; all thought had been trained upon the ruins below them. "The catacombs will crawl with the cohorts of soldiers the Dragonlords will have brought with them," the assassin mulled. "Killing but one of them will leave an unmistakable signature. We must be silent, and we must be swift. Darkness will be our only ally here."

Viper looked at the Listener. "And what if there is a chance? A chance of…of fulfilling one of your contracts? If the opportunity presents itself, would you take it?"

A most peculiar glint lit the Listener's eye. "My contracts still stand," she whispered, "and indeed, should a chance present itself, then a chance I shall take. Dragonlords gather here. It is a most perfect opportunity, but as rife with risk as it proffers reward. I will not regret if no chance presents itself to me, and should such a moment arise, we both must work to ensure the both of our clean disappearances. The vengeance of Dragonlords is fast, directed, and driven, and I intend to leave no trail for them to follow home to Sanctuary."

 _A serpent may slide in and out of the dragon's mouth. It has been done before._ Viper looked harder at the ruins and quelled the last of her uncertainty. _So it shall happen again. We will come and be gone before autumn descends upon Tamriel._

"Drink, my child, and prepare," the Listener ordered. Viper lowered her cloth mask and did so; the Vernaculum tasted like honeyed wine, and was sweet and tingling on her tongue. The same song from earlier returned to the fore of her thoughts. _We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone…_ She felt no different, but she trusted the potion to do its work. Then, with her mask still lowered, and the night air crisp on her bare cheeks, she picked up the small black-shelled phial and anointed her lips with her signature. _For the Age of Oppression is now nearly done…_

 _And if such an opportunity arrives,_ she thought, _then Ollos shall have a second Kiss._ She smelled the nightshade potent in her balm, and smiled wickedly. _It shall be his last, and this I swear. When he no longer haunts my thoughts, even at the slightest mention of his name, then I shall be free of him for good._ It was a most pleasurable thought.

Quite suddenly she was reminded of her and the Dunmer assassin's conversation. A virgin kill was your most important, he claimed—and he believed her to possess potential. _Bitterness that shall allow me to transform…to become something else._

A killer? A murderer of men?

Viper's grin broadened. _A Dragonlord turns his back on mortality. A Dragonlord is no man._ And after all, she'd triumphed over him once before, as they all said. She had seen him weep scarlet rue, he had become perfectly powerless under her touch—she'd had a chance to kill him once before, and yet she hadn't, for it hadn't been her way then. It could be her way now.

She turned to the Listener and saw the Altmer sweeping back her long silver hair. She placed over her profile a mask of her own; it was almost wholly black, if not for a circle of red in the centre of her forehead. Within this scarlet circle was a black handprint. It was only when the Listener turned to face Viper that the shape of the mask was accentuated; skull-shaped, its gaping sockets shrouded the eyes. Not a hint of the wearer's luminous amber irises showed. Her voice was distorted strangely as she spoke—the difference was remarkable and definitely unnatural.

"Are you prepared, Sister-friend?"

Viper raised her cloth mask, drew her cowl low, and nodded. The song still chanted through her mind even as thief and assassin descended the mountainside wrapped in night, and into the darkness that awaited and greeted them far, far below.

 _For this land is ours, and we'll see it wiped clean, of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams…_

 **d|b**


	46. XXXXV - Deceits and Truths

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

The interrogators were unyielding. They continued asking the same questions, over and over.

"What is your name?" As though they knew Maxius wasn't it.

"What was your purpose in the Reach?" Delivering a message to a widow, he insisted. "Then where is this message?" they'd demand, and he couldn't answer them, because on his honour as a freerider he would never surrender what was only meant for his client's eyes.

Then they'd proceed to the real thing that seemed to matter to them. "What were you doing with the dragon?" They never listened to the first argument—they might beat him into silence, or allow him to stammer stupidly into it, depending on his phrasing of 'random encounter' he might have put it as that day. Then Ross was forced to explain, once again, that the words they'd shared had been nonsensical, at least to him. They'd respond that clearly he and the dragon were acquaintances, as the dragon had not hunted him down to kill him, but to share words. Ross might lose his temper at that point, guaranteeing another beating, sometimes which left him stunned and senseless on the floor of his cell. Then they would disappear, to return in another three hours.

They gave him mouthfuls of water to sustain him, but no food. Did they intend to starve the truth out of him? He'd lasted the first two days of his imprisonment on the crumbling supplies he kept on his person, although the bulk of them had been in the saddlebags of his horse. Now they were gone, and he was starting to feel the walls closing in. Three days now he'd been without a solid bite, and every waking moment he felt his insides strangled with hunger. Perhaps they'd succeed.

During the first day here in the place he didn't know, he'd asked a few questions of his own. Where was he being held? He received no answer. This had all been an enormous misunderstanding, could they please release him? Even as he brandished his pin in their faces they'd turned him down. Many times Ross stared at his little fox under his chin, his badge of office, and thought how remarkably stupid he must seem, continually expecting this little bit of polished metal to keep him out of trouble. Such bitter thoughts had come into his cell to keep him company.

By the third day he stopped demanding release. It clearly wasn't going to work. These shadow-faced sorts clearly had no intention of letting him go and were willing only to see him as a dragonman no matter what he told them.

Because nobody else did, he nursed his wounds, the old and the new. The skin-splitting blow he'd received to his head as he'd slipped from the saddle and onto the road, that was healing slowly, and the rawness of it made him grit his teeth in pain. The flesh was tender and repulsively warm to the touch. Had infection set in? He had nothing to reflect his face in, and there was hardly any light in the dark windowless cell. It was cool down here, and reeked of dust and decay and rotting straw. Other injuries included numerous blows to the face, made by plated knuckles, so some strikes had torn further wounds into his flesh, although these were shallow enough and were scabbing and healing over fine. The welts would settle and fade. But he'd been kicked in the stomach once, and he feared the metal boot may have bruised or cracked his ribs, as for several long hours afterward breathing was a pained struggle. Fortunately this had settled down when the next day's worth of interrogations came to pass.

It came to him after the fourth day ended; they would never believe his truth. This would go on forever unless he told them something they wanted to hear.

 _Like what?_ Dizzy with fatigue and hunger and the pain of the new injuries he'd sustained this day, even his thoughts had become quite strange to him. _I am a dragonman, on my way to Markarth to report to my governing general for duty, but Uldmidaar and I—we're such good friends, you know—we were happily discussing our next raid upon the Markarth settlements—should we next ransack_ Velaar _or_ Teylaassum _?_ He snorted his derision. _I'm going mad, aren't I?_

Distant roars and shrieks disturbed his thoughts, as they did each time his interrogators left. They would move on to where Uldmidaar was being held. This place had cells built to keep dragons, Ross had discovered. The golden creature had suffered a similar fate as he—only his cries echoed a lot more often, and a lot more loudly, than Ross's ever would.

Once he'd asked his captors what they were doing to him. No answer. Ross drew his own conclusions much later; Uldmidaar was being tortured.

Somehow, with this thought in mind, the dragon's cries resounded far clearer than they had before. Never had Ross imagined such a vast creature being able to produce such ghastly sounds. From roars and bellows as vast and deafening as thunder to high, shrill caterwauls that made hair stand on end—and each was agonized, afraid or angry, or neither, or both. Ross tried to remember that this had been the creature that had performed the _vaxnilz_ upon the Raider general, that he had brutally murdered a man before the populace of _Ahgelingrah_ …but he could not remember clearly enough, else he would not feel sorry for the dragon's torment.

He thought over the words he and Uldmidaar had shared—such strange words, his even stranger thoughts recounted. He had never heard a dragon speak to anyone in the way Uldmidaar had to him, in the last few minutes of their freedom. _Tampered with the fates of millions_ …now what could he have meant by this? Did Uldmidaar intend to leave his days of freeflight behind him? Had his execution of Ulfric Stormbear convinced him to defend his kinfolk and actively serve his overlord? _This I did not want, but when asked to sacrifice, I obey._ As Ross recognized him at last on the road, that had been the dragon's response. So was that how Uldmidaar saw the _vaxnilz_ , as a sacrifice?

A sacrifice to what? It had been murder.

 _He is more than capable of it,_ Ross scowled. _What about Marla's story?_ The _Ahgelingrah_ tavern-keeper's sister and her family had been devoured by that dragon, their farm burned to ashes. A monster, they perceived him as, as unfair and mindlessly cruel as the lot of them.

 _Must I always be the villain you see me as?_

It was a strangely remorseful way of speaking, if he were truly the same that had willingly slain innocents.

Much of this dialogue Ross had left unspoken. Over and over he'd told his gaolers that he and Uldmidaar had come across one another purely by chance—they had not intended to meet—the dragon had been trying to leave before the net brought him crashing back to earth. So far he had not yet revealed his identity. That would not have improved his argument in that he did not know the dragon if he admitted knowing his name.

Perhaps these people might understand some of the nonsense Uldmidaar had imparted upon him before their capture. Ross considered telling them the next time they came to question him. But the dragon's cries met his ears once more, and he shuddered. How could he say? What if it only made it worse for him, for them both?

 _But something must be done._ Ross clutched his head, felt the infected wound pulsing heat under his fingers. _We cannot go on like this. We will die before this madness ends._

When he slept away the fourth night, madness claimed him, in the form of the _vaxnilz_.

How long ago had it been? Ross could not remember…and even in his sleep, Uldmidaar's peculiar dialogue resonated throughout it, as though it all fit together like a bizarre riddle resolved. _Tampered with the fates of millions,_ the dragon rumbled, as Ulfric Stormbear lifted his head and proclaimed, _My nephew's armies will not be crippled…They will see my death as a provocation to the greatest war this world has ever known…_

The _vaxnilz_ merged into mist and shadow; the dragon's flame withered and faded, and amidst a sea of murmured whispers Ross saw him at the riverside, speaking gently with a creature so pathetic it could certainly stand no chance against a dragon…and they were not enemies. There was no fear. They were pale with the cold and anticipation spoken only through a means they were capable of understanding. Ross had glimpsed a blurred exterior that day. Then Uldmidaar turned to Ross and spoke directly to him. _Must I always be the villain you see me as?_

The white blind creature shrieked at the sight of him, and sprouted ill-feathered wings, and took flight, and perched on a splintering pine-bough in the shape of a large old raven that incessantly dogged his journey in the east. _Way, way,_ it cried. Angry, Ross seized something to throw at it, but the raven was on a sword stuck upright in the ground, perched upon its waiting hilt, and he was holding a money bag with a sprig of pine stuck through its neck. _Sent, sent,_ it laughed, and both it and the sword merged together and grew taller and broader, until Halling Greensmile stood in their place with his beard flowing down between his toes and rooted in the ground. Shocked, Ross tripped over a tail thick as a fallen trunk, and fell flat on his back with the blazing green eyes of the golden dragon hanging over him. _You have tampered with millions of fates!_ he screamed, and his deep rumble rose in pitch until he extended a wing claw—only it was a human's hand—and seized Ross round the throat and lifted him clean off the ground. Ulfric Stormbear bore him, yet spoke with his nephew's voice. _You are honest, so I trust you will keep silent of this_.

Ross nodded desperately, fighting for breath. _On my honour as a freerider._

Ulfric laughed, long and hard and harsh. _Are you certain you are neutral still?_ He let go, and Ross plummeted as though from a cliff, while a dragon circled over him and bellowed with fury. _Begone!_ he roared, his anger hot as flame. _I will have no more men die on my account!_ Fire chased him down, licking at his limbs, scorching his skin black, and Ross fell screaming, screaming back into wakefulness.

He woke silently, and suffering. The fire still raged through him, and yet he was shivering. A brand was pressing into his forehead. He withdrew into himself, trying to comprehend anything. He remembered his horse was gone, and his crossbow too, taken by his captors. Uldmidaar's cries had ceased. It was very quiet…no, that was a lie; there were footsteps, and only a single set of them, ringing with metal strides. An auburn glow heralded the way outside. Then the door opened, seemingly on its own accord. The woman standing at its entrance had not used her hands to turn the handle.

Ross blinked dazedly at her, unsure how to greet her. He hadn't seen her down here before, though she was dressed in the same style as his interrogators.

Silently she approached him, surveying him intently with slanted green eyes that appeared to Ross to glimmer gold. She set her torch in its empty rack on the wall of his cell, and knelt at his side. Before he could ask what she was going to do, her palm pressed against his head, and almost at once the pain eased. The fog in his mind lifted, the fire was quelled, and he stopped shivering.

Her other hand pushed a flask against his mouth and forced its contents down his throat. Ross swallowed obediently and without protest; he found he had a desperate thirst. When he had drained the flask, the woman straightened and looked down on him.

"I want you to tell me the truth."

Ross stared at her flatly, while bracing himself for the onslaught. "I've told you the truth."

"No. You will not lie to me, freerider." She faced the door, several paces across the cell, and bared her palm to it—the door clicked shut with barely a sound, though she had not touched it. Then she looked at him again, devoid of expression. "You have lied to my Brothers and Sisters who have come before me, but you will not lie to me."

"I haven't lied."

"Prove it. Your name, then."

It was a different person but the same interrogation. Ross scowled at her. "I've told you. If you won't have it—"

"I know you, freerider. You call yourself Maxius here, but you called yourself Ronus elsewhere. Where were you called Ronus? You were only just there recently." There was something in her tone that suggested plainly she knew where—she was only testing him, to prove if he was indeed a liar, or spoke of himself honestly.

To give himself time, Ross instead reflected the question back upon its origin. "Where did you hear of Ronus?"

Unsmiling, the woman said, "Where I come from, my people have memories as long as a man's lifetime. I know you know of it. Any who would have passed under the shadow of the trees would know what I speak of. I ask you again; where were you called Ronus?"

She did know; to lie was pointless. "The greenwood," Ross muttered.

"Whom did you serve there?"

"I…was delivering a message to a lumberjack."

"You did not serve the lumberjack. You served his father, the stablemaster in Whiterun. I repeat; _whom did you serve?_ "

Ross didn't understand. "How would you know who that man served?"

"I am a daughter of the greenwood, sir." The woman's eyes flashed, and there seemed something rather unnatural about the way her green irises glittered faintly gold, yet she spoke lyrically with a Nordic lilt. "Memories are long. The memory of your being there is still quite new. Of course I learned of it; the wind tells me many stories of the happenings in my home. I know who you served even if you refuse to admit. You continue to prove yourself a liar, and you do so to me, as you have done to every one of my Order that has come into your company."

Angered, Ross snapped, "You give me no reason to tell you the truth. What will happen to us if we do? Will you release us?" _Release us as Kaarn does to his own prisoners?_

"Us?" the woman echoed pointedly.

Ross cursed himself, but there was no point turning back now. "The dragon and I had nothing to do with each other before you found us together on the road—"

"Oh?" she said. "So why is it the wind whispers tales of a freerider of many names was in the city at the time of a traitor's purge? It was not long after that a freerider of many names came into the service of the warden of the south. Now a freerider of many names lies at my feet, listening and wondering how it is a phantom of stone and brume should know these things." A small, mysterious smile quirked at her lips. "Because you were watched by the greenwood raven."

Ross sat up. Of all answers he'd expected, it had not been this. "You know of it?"

"Of course I know of it." The woman knelt to his height and spoke gently, even excitedly. "I grew up in the greenwood, where the eld-spirited beasts wander with grown minds under the long-lived trees, trees that look skyward in bitterness, resenting the dragons nesting in their murk. Elk and wolf and raven, the first and the oldest of all the beasts of the earth, bound to the magic that flows through Nirn's veins; the magic that changes, that bridges the young and the old together. My mother taught me how to link with the flow. Do not think I do not know of the happenings in my home, though I am far from it hunting children of the sky. The wind will tell me many more stories before a tree's heart beats for me."

Ross could find nothing to say.

"Now you will tell me a tale, freerider." The greenwood's daughter stood once more, again unsmiling and stern. "You will tell me what was said between you and the golden dragon, on the lonely road in the fold of the Reach."

Her order resonated through the cell; how could Ross ignore it? Her strange eyes rested unblinking upon him, awaiting his response; she knew when he lied and when he told the truth, and it was the truth that she wanted; the dialogue he'd heard, could it mean something to these people? Perhaps they too knew the golden dragon, perhaps they were already aware of Uldmidaar's part in the death of Ulfric Stormbear, the kindling of the Raiders' rebellion. Had all this been a test of his honesty, his trustworthiness? Or was he really going mad?

Why should he protect the dragon? He was nothing to him, just another creature, another tormentor of mortality. It should count for nothing, the strange things he'd said. It meant nothing at all…and so why say it, then? It had been nothing like he'd expected or ever encountered; dragons knew no mercy and prided themselves upon it! Why had it not just killed him? Why had it chosen to spare him, to even _warn_ him? For warned him Uldmidaar had— _begone_ , he'd said, _begone, before you too are found and punished of innocent crimes._ Easily he could have just left him, or ended him…and he hadn't. It had been mercy, somehow. The dragon had shown him mercy. The riddle remained unsolved, his own questions unanswered. Ross could not tell the truth, because he didn't know the truth himself.

 _He flew through the night across the Reach, clawing into the mountainsides. He had business with pale blind dwellers from under the earth. A shining jewel, large as a dragon's egg, the bargain of negotiation that ensued between them. I disturbed them. The dragon's wrath was terrible, but he had never intended to kill me. He told me that I had tampered with the fates of millions for watching them. He told me to flee before I was mistaken for an enemy I was not. That was what he claimed to be._

Ross shook his head.

"Nothing was shared between us. Nothing at all. I had a message to deliver and the dragon's business was his own."

 _A freeflier who saw Ulfric Stormbear's death as a sacrifice, not a traitor's purge._

The woman was displeased. Her cold glare burned into him, until Ross could not hold it. He ducked his head with nothing else to tell her. "You had your chance, sir," she whispered. "You lie inside and out. Your fate remains and will not change until you do." And then the daughter of the greenwood left him as all had done.

He could not linger in his bitterness. She was right.

Ross closed his eyes and willed sleep to return, even if it was a return to the madness that had flourished in his fevered state. _I did not tell,_ he thought. _On my honour as a freerider, I did not tell._ But honour counted for nothing now. His pin was just dull metal, his freerider's honour starving him to death, and the dragon's secret…he considered it as such, at least…he had not been asked to keep it, but he did, simply because what Uldmidaar had told him was _strange_.

 _This I did not want, but when asked to sacrifice, I obey…Must I always be the villain you see me as?…Phantoms shadow these mountains, do you know not? Ghosts that devour mine brothers, and any that dare to see reason in this turmoil…All men perceive me as the enemy, do they not? Do_ you _not? Do not lie…_

No; that was the wrong word for it. Not strange. He only saw it as strange because, in its own twisted incomprehensible way, the dragon had given him the truth.

Ross laughed softly. _Truth about what?_ That the _vaxnilz_ was a sacrifice on Ulfric's behalf? Uldmidaar's public demonstration of his loyalty had been a farce? That he was no adversary of Skyrim? That at the hands of these stone-hearted dragonslayers, he was as misunderstood and victimized as Ross himself?

 _Guilty of innocent crimes…_

And out of the darkness of his doubt and fear and utter unknowing came the impossible answer to them all.

 _Yes._

Uldmidaar was no more an enemy to Skyrim than the man he'd released in his flame.

 **d|b**


	47. XXXXVI - Sworn Secrets

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

A night of neither moons marked the end of this summer. The river's current was gentle, tranquil; there was just enough light to see silhouettes comfortably; it was the right time. Pyrus placed every ounce of his concentration into the magicka simmering gently in his palm, cast the spell upon himself, and slid noiselessly into the babbling Karth.

The information the Blades had given him had proven more useful than he'd anticipated; it elaborated upon the growth of dragon adolescents, and considered their behaviour from aspects he had not anticipated the thought of. It spoke upon the gradual maturing of their Voices, which could begin as young as infancy if they were exposed to a significant and continual source (such as ice, for Frost Dragons reared in the snow), but the rate of their development varied by the strength of the purity in their blood. Mixed breeds developed their Voices slower than those with pure ancestries, although it seemed affirmed that their Voices were fully matured when they were. Shouts were easiest for them to understand when they were young, like a child grasping its mother tongue, although like an adult learning a new language, wyrms and adult dragons were more than capable of coming to understand a new Shout.

From these, Pyrus had formulated some new theories as how to hatch the egg. His favourite of them so far was that if he learned the breed from the egg—and he was certain that the patterns upon the shell would have something to do with that—then by exposing the egg to its natural element would tempt the hatchling into wakefulness. If it was a Frost Dragon's egg, then it would be easy. He would take it north to Winterhold. He could conceal it in the crypts under the College and grow it in solitude and secrecy, and only when its loyalty was assuredly bound to him would he allow it the privilege of the sky and the open air.

But binding its loyalty to him…that was going to be difficult. It could be done, he told himself stubbornly. How else could Vylornar command his creature Ausnahyol without the use of a dragonjewel? This Pyrus desperately needed to find out—that, and if there was any faster way of hatching the egg.

It was why he had not yet left the territory of these outlaw dragonslayers, despite their Grandmaster's warning. He would make his way north in due time, only until he had received everything he'd needed. _We will give you as much as we can spare,_ she'd said, and with this much information she and her fellows had granted him, Pyrus was hungry for what they hadn't given him. There was certain to be much still unknown to him. He stored his information in a safe place, marked a way to it so he would not forget, and spent the next passing days studying the land and the river island in which he was certain the slayers had made their home.

He had learned to be cautious; he could sustain his invisibility for almost a full hour, which granted him just enough time to closely investigate an area of the island that had caught his interest. Any possible way of infiltration he'd studied tirelessly, until he'd certified it was not the way he'd been brought into their underground company. Their hiding hole was well concealed, he'd come to grudgingly admit, after two days of no success. He was going through his supplies quickly, but Pyrus was not so concerned over food—Eagle's Rest was a day's walk south from the Karth. His supply of firesbane, donated by the rogues, he had to be careful not to run out. He had no desire to be crippled by his own remembered agony again.

It was not until this morning that he'd had a breakthrough in his search. It had been a bright sunlit dawn, and the mist had receded enough to outline the stone head's summit. Looking closely as he ate his scant breakfast, Pyrus spotted tiny figures moving around a pinnacle of rock—only it wasn't a mound of stone, but a disguised contraption coloured like the stone around it. When Pyrus figured out the angles of it, it seemed to him like an enormous crossbow with two pairs of arms rather than one. He'd seen something like it before, long ago in his childhood; in the hovel where he'd been raised, they'd had such a turret, and he'd witnessed one of its drills. It could expel a large net with tremendous force. He'd asked what it was for, and answered that it was in case any dragons decided to ignore their own laws and attempt a feed upon their own slaves.

This turret looked of a much better make than the one in his distant memory; it was aimed down to the roadside far below, and when Pyrus noticed more of them, most seemed to be set in a neutral stance. Only a few, like the one he'd first seen, were different, and their heads had also been bowed down to the road. Recalling something about taking a dragonman prisoner, and aware at what the turrets had been designed to do, Pyrus had considered a possibility. Careful to be hidden from the sentries, who could pop up in the most unlikely and unexpected of places, he cast the spell of invisibility over himself and proceeded to the road to have a better look, and was rewarded; the cobbles had stark white scars gauged into its surface which certainly looked fresh. He examined the scene more closely, and again was rewarded with the sight of spots of blood, dried and fading on the worn surface, but fresh enough to complement his theory.

 _The mage and the Orc bruiser spoke of taking a dragonman captive,_ he mused at the time. _They wouldn't have used their turrets upon a single man._ With the 'Trench' they'd mentioned prominent in his mind, and remembering the distant shrieks and bellows that had first drawn him to this place at all, Pyrus spent a good deal of the day exploring the island top to bottom based solely on a new and highly exciting hypothesis; that these outlaws had also captured a dragon.

It would explain how they had so much information about the enemy they vigorously hunted—where better than to receive it directly from the source? And if the dragon was still alive, then he too could learn from it. He would wait for the hunters to dry the beast out and then approach it in its weakened state, force or trick the necessary information out of it, and finally be on his way. The thought made Pyrus giddy with excitement—suddenly it was so easy, his purpose so clear—and he considered the stone island from all angles, drawing together all he'd learned to conceive how these hunters might have possibly imprisoned a dragon in their own fortress.

They could not have come through the front door; Pyrus had been conscious as they'd removed him from their premises; blindfolded tightly, bound hand and foot, and slung over the Orc's shoulder much in the same manner as they'd brought him in. But he'd felt the brute tread downhill and wade through the river and his heavy boots clank across the cobbles of the road. The entrance was set up off the riverbank, and by a fair amount. Even if they had a hundred Orc hunters, they wouldn't have been able to drag a subdued dragon up the steep terrain, and certainly not quietly and quickly.

For a good while this had him stumped. He'd even returned to his hidden information and browsed desperately through it, in case there'd been a hint concealed in the pages. But these hunters had been very precise about the information they'd chosen to give him. There was not a single mention of their underground fortress, let alone a means of access. They were a clever sort, these rogue hunters—but he had to be cleverer, if he would ever hope to access the most valuable source of information he sensed he would ever encounter.

And then, as he sat fuming over the frustration of it all, his attention rested upon the river…and a new theory unfurled in his head. _There was an underground entrance._

He drew conclusions quickly. Using the river, the dragon could be floated as far downstream as it was needed, then pulled into an opening and from there drag it upwards into an underground cell. The water would weaken their enormous prisoner, leave no traces of struggle or removal, and if the entrance to this presumed underwater tunnel was found beneath the surface, then not even the dragon's sharp-eyed brethren could locate the start of its incarceration.

The river rose and fell, peaking at midday, lowering in the afternoon. When the river was low and its current lazy, Pyrus once more concealed himself and gave himself to the current. It took several tries to work out how to swim soundlessly and, most importantly, how to not drown. He kept the thought of the egg burning through his mind as he allowed the river's freezing current to engulf him, over and over again, while he searched right down to the riverbed of any possible underwater caves. Several times he nearly lost concentration of his invisibility, but nothing bothered him save for a few mudcrabs, which tugged at his robes testing if he were still alive when he flopped exhausted on the shore after his fifth attempt. He sent them off with a few flashes of fire, warmed himself, and went back in determined to locate the entrance. He was starting to lose hope by then.

It was fortunate that he discovered it that time, or he might not have tried again. A large crop of stone gave the impression even at the river's lowest of a solid wall reaching right down into the riverbed below. It was not the case. It ended barely three foot under the surface and yawned a giant opening that rose steeply upwards, straight back into the stone island. Pyrus ventured upward and broke surface quickly, and discovered a tunnel sloping steadily upward, broad enough for ten horses that stood side by side. It was large enough to drag a dragon, and captured a dragon they had, for he could hear distant cries and the thrums of enormous movement rumbling down the passage. Pyrus collected his strength, cast the spell upon him, and cautiously followed it to its end.

An enormous iron gate made a barrier to a stone pit large enough to fit a warden's longhouse, and within this giant chamber was the imprisoned dragon. Pyrus had been captivated by the sight of it at once; such power had been tamed. Its feet were manacled to the walls around it. Its head was trapped in an iron yoke chained to the ceiling in three places. A metal manacle was placed around the ends of its snout so it could not part its jaws, but could still breathe through its nostrils and speak in furious growls out of the corners of its mouth. Its tail had been cuffed as well, its twin chains leading to either end of its yoke so it could not lash its tail without pulling painfully at the metal against its horns and throat.

 _See might brought low,_ Pyrus thought at the sight of it. _See fire made flesh brought to heel._ The dragon was thoroughly ensnared. Deprived of its Voice, its natural defenses suppressed, and denied the sanity of the sky, it was at the complete mercy of its captors. Pyrus wondered how long it had been incarcerated, and how long it could last resisting against those that tormented it; figures wandered freely around it, comfortable in its helpless state. While armoured soldiers stood watching from balconies, unarmed robed men and women, and even a few that looked like children apprentices, drew blood, stripped scales and interrogated the creature. Each time it failed to answer a question, which it did at its every chance, a scale on its neck was removed and a burning rod was driven into the vulnerable open flesh. Even with its mouth bound, it could still scream its bloodcurdling agony.

Pyrus lingered for as long as he dared to, before he withdrew from the underground chamber and found his way back to daylight and a place to contemplate his next move. It seemed obvious, and he found no argument to his plan. He would just have to be careful that he was not interrupted, and certainly not recaptured.

The night was in his favour, however. The river was gentle and low after midnight. If there were any sentries upon the stone island that night, they would have had no chance of noticing him. Wreathed in invisibility, Pyrus glided the Karth down to the opening, then submerged, ducked beneath the hanging lip, and entered the broad tunnel for the second time. It was devoid of sound. The dragon was probably alone. He slipped off his boots to assure noiselessness and crept the tunnel barefooted.

The Trench seemed empty of life; even the dragon looked dead, if not for the soft, slow thrums of its breath. Pyrus had never seen anything lie so still. He looked quickly about the chamber, but there were no torches or braziers that had filled this pit with light. Even the guards had to sleep. He put on his damp boots and waited half an hour to make sure that the absence of armoured watchers wasn't just a shift change; then very quietly stepped inside. The gate had been built to prevent a dragon getting out; it had not been designed to prevent a small mortal getting in; the spaces in the grille were large enough for him to climb through.

 _I am here at last._ Energy simmered in his soul, and he could feel the welcome warmth of fire tingling in his fingertips. He approached the dragon, wondering what first to say to it. Should he greet it in the manner of its kind, to win its trust? Or should he assert his authority by disturbing it with pain? But he did not wish to make his presence known, and the dragon's cries, he recalled, had been loud despite the manacle around its jaws…

He didn't say a word. The dragon's pattern of breath changed suddenly. Its nostrils flared. Pyrus realized he'd been detected, but remained unseen. The dragon's eyes, burning green, opened slowly. With the slightest turn of its bulky head it surveyed its darkened environment, and inhaled deeply. Then it rumbled quietly, "I know you are there, stranger. Come closer. Your purpose plainly lies with me."

Pyrus didn't move. The creature rolled its viridescent orbs and blinked once, nostrils flaring. "Your scent differs from the rest," he growled. "You do not smell like those that have captured me, that torture and torment me, because my blood and soul belongs to the race of dragonkind. Now come closer. Why have you disturbed me, outsider?"

Oddly, Pyrus chuckled. "Here I understood that it was the Bloods that possessed the keenest senses," he murmured aloud.

The dragon stirred. It raised its head ever so slightly, and its chains clanked dully around it. "You have not come seeking knowledge from me, like the rest of those _hilsegol firokke?_ " Its query ended in a bitter snarl.

"How strange you ask." Pyrus stepped closer. "I do seek knowledge—but if you give me what I need, I swear upon all gods that I will not harm you."

"You think I fear pain, _joor vonuz?_ " the dragon whispered. "My wounds will heal. I wish they would not. I wish they would claim me. Escape is impossible. I have failed in my duty and those that relied upon me shall suffer the consequence of my…blunder."

Despair was prominent in the response, which took Pyrus by surprise. He didn't think these creatures were capable of comprehending it. At once he realized that this dragon was not like the others. It was weakened, exhausted, and perhaps sliding into the madness that came of a dragon denied its sphere of the sky. _This could be easier than I thought_.

"Will you tell me your name?" he asked it.

The dragon's eyes flashed. "I will not sink so low. _Voknau dii zin._ "

"Very well. Please listen. I have a problem that I believe you can be of assistance of."

"And why should I aid you, _joor?_ " It was a question without scorn, only curiosity. Pyrus suspected he was being judged by this chained creature—the audacity!—but very well, he could play its game, if that was its wish.

"I may be able to aid you in return. You seek freedom? Freedom I can give you." He wasn't sure if he actually could, but he let none of his inner doubt show in his voice. He felt immune to dragoneye while invisible. His deception could pass for truth.

The dragon considered this. " _Mu fen koraav._ Give me proof of your ability and willingness to restore me my liberty, and I shall answer what questions you have to ask me."

Pyrus hesitated. This was unexpected, but a perfectly logical request as he came to think about it. With new eyes he studied the dragon's chains. The body of the ringlets were as thick as his arm, the manacles the breadth of a warhammer's head. He ran his hands upon their surfaces. The metal would be next to impossible to warp by fire—but could it be made brittle by a concentration of ice—brittle enough for its captive to break its chain?

As a student of destruction, he'd had to learn the foundations of the three destructive elements, frost and shock alongside the flame, before he could progress to the more advanced practices and personal choice of study. Frost he disliked in its polar opposite nature to fire, but if he needed to cast it he could. He just hoped that it would be strong enough.

Which he doubted, seriously, almost as soon as he considered the possibility of the idea. A dragon's Frost Breath might be able to damage the manacles and chains, but it couldn't damage them to the extent when this creature could pull itself free.

And what could lightning do? Lightning had taken his interest slightly more than frost studies, but it was the most volatile element to harness, and the most difficult to master, as its demand of magicka was greater than its destructive cousins. But it could be devastating. Pyrus looked at the chains bound to the ceiling and wondered. This metal was naturally resilient to fire and ice, but lightning? There were such things as Storm Dragons, able to effectively create and command what they were named for, although they preferred Morrowind over Skyrim. There was a chance that these traps hadn't been built in anticipation for holding a Storm Dragon, given their lack of presence in said province, and if that were true, the metal trap undoubtedly created to resist fire and frost might be susceptible to shock.

It had been a long time since he'd last cast a lightning bolt, but Pyrus recalled how to produce one easily enough. If he could produce it strong enough to shatter the thick iron chains…

He stepped around the dragon's wing and looked thoughtfully at the binding around its tail. Three chains connected it to the yoke, restricting its movement. Pyrus knew where to start; he concentrated his magicka into his hands, summoned the energy of lightning, and morphed the energy around his fingers. It was no different than casting a firestream, he told himself. All it needed was precision and strength. Then, at the peak of its power and at the lowest of his own energy, he projected it.

The lightning bolt seared through the darkness and struck through the chain. Metal screamed briefly, and then all was silent.

Throbbing with fatigue, Pyrus straightened and looked hopefully at the result of his handiwork. The bolt had struck a single ringlet, but he had formed it correctly, and its attack had proven effective. The iron was red-hot on both its sides, and one looked weaker than the other. It was steaming heavily.

 _A weakness indeed._ "Pull," he ordered. "Pull it apart."

The chain immediately tensed as strength flooded the dragon; its tail pushed down towards the ground. The struck metal twisted and grimaced, and parts of it looked to splinter. Pyrus drew a deep breath and tried to summon a second. His magicka was very low, and he felt on the verge of passing out, but adrenalin sustained him when his natural mana would not. He managed to produce a second burst of lighting, far weaker than the first, but enough to ultimately shatter the ringlet. The chain snapped in two and the dragon swayed, its head lurching forward, its tail pulling down, swinging with a glimpse of its former mobility.

Pyrus dropped to his knees and fought furiously against the almost overwhelming surge of dizziness and exhaustion that rose to claim him. _Do not let it see that you are weak,_ he told himself. _Get up. Get onto your feet._ But he couldn't, not yet. He could not do much but lift his head, still upon the ground, and speak clearly. The dragon couldn't see him. It would judge him now on his voice alone. "That was your proof," he said. "Now you will answer my questions."

The dragon exhaled in a long, rattling breath. "Very well, _joor_ _vonuz_. If I can." Its tail tugged experimentally at the two remaining chains.

Pyrus pictured the egg, lying hidden at the side of the road. He pictured the baby curled inside, the creature he vowed to make his own. The chance was here; he drew breath and forced himself to speak almost meditatively, giving nothing away. "What is the process," he began softly, "of your reproduction?"

Immediately the dragon tensed. A low, rattling snarl escaped it. "You know not what you ask…"

"That is one of my questions. You will answer."

"No!" it snapped, sharp with anger. "You know not what you ask, impertinent mage! _Hi laan vahriin soven_ —that is a sworn secret of the _dov!_ "

"You promised you would answer my questions," Pyrus reminded it calmly. "You will answer or you prove you cannot keep your word—which means I have no incentive to keep mine. You will stay down here and suffer at the hands of mortals until your death or you yield your secrets to them, and even then, I do not know what they do with broken dragons." It had fallen silent, more indecisive than rebellious. Or was it afraid? "I can break every one of your chains," Pyrus told it. "But if you will not help me, the chains remain."

The dragon's deep breaths rattled in its huge body. A moment or so passed in relative silence. Then it whispered, " _Pruzah saag._ We will speak, face to face, _joor_. You have my ear and I have yours. Now let us hold eyes. I will not give secrets to only darkness."

Pyrus hesitated, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. He could mount them without falling over, at least. He looked about the Trench to ensure that there were no unwelcome watchers, then stepped back around its wing and came into its line of sight. The dragon's green stare locked upon him, full of fire. It was highly alert, and quietly it was straining against its every snare; each chain was taut, and power still flowed through its seemingly stationary form.

"Better," it rumbled. "Now we will speak as equals."

 _As equals._ It was praise to Pyrus; he straightened, feeling more or less like how he had been before Vylornar had come to Winterhold, before he had been crippled and broken. It was a good feeling. Fire simmered in his veins, and he relished its heat and presence. "Tell me your sworn secret," he ordered.

The dragon sighed, and briefly assumed an expression of wretchedness, but its eyes never left him. " _Geh_ , I gave you my word," it muttered, half to itself. "You wish to know of how my kin reproduce? I sense you did not come all this way to hear that male and female make offspring together, as like any creature. Very well." It delayed for only a moment more. "Only one child is produced at a time. The father does not stay to rear it. When the mother lays, the father's duty is done. He departs, perhaps to find another mate, if it is the will of his lord."

"Will of his lord?" Pyrus echoed.

" _Alduin_ ," the dragon breathed, and the name rang darkly through the chamber. "Alduin makes good on his claim as firstborn of all. He has overseen the continuing of our race. The Ancient Elders of us speak that in the time of the First Quelling—to you, the Dragon Wars—there was only one dragoness that Alduin permitted to breed. From her, _Monahrel_ , she birthed all dragonkind. All are descended of her. She was our queen."

Pyrus furrowed his brow. "But there are more dragonesses now?"

"There were always more," the dragon said, "but they were not allowed to give lay, not without suffering Alduin's wrath. Only the _monahrel_ he entrusted the responsibility of raising every newborn _dovah_. It meant that in the Wars, mortals might succeed in killing dragons, but more would always arise. The _monahrel_ was kept safe, the secret of dragonbirth safe with her. Until…" A soft growl escaped him. "There came the Treachery. When one of Alduin's closest turned against him, and betrayed the dragon race to share the immortal power of the Voice to mortal bearers. The Wars changed; mortal victories came more often. Mortal heroes arose and grew in power of their own until even the mightiest of our kind fell to their bloodthirst.

"Then came the most crippling blow to us all." The dragon closed its eyes. "The _monahrel_ was found and she was killed at mortal hands. Our kin began to die without replacement, and the tide of the Quelling turned against us. _Tiidun lost avok._ When Alduin was banished through Time, we withdrew from the world. We could not breed; we could not risk the exposure of our secret of dragonbirth. One by one we were claimed by the earth, until Alduin raised us from it to serve him again. _Slen Tiid Vo, ahrk Dovahkiin grutiik_. We succeeded in the Second Quelling—to you, the purge—and in the dawn of this Fifth Era, Alduin granted the rights to breed to all dragonesses. His dominion over the world was complete; there were none left to stand against him; we were free to grow our race."

"But that would have meant you'd have exposed yourselves," Pyrus argued. "You could breed in, relatively speaking, the open eyes of mortality. Your secret of dragonbirth—"

"—remains secret." The dragon bared its fangs. "So you witness half-growns in the open, and hatchlings under their mothers' wings, if she does not devour you for seeing. They are most protective of their children. Alduin remains particular, however. He watches firmly over our new liberties. Only certain males are permitted to take a female to mate. This is his will and the _dov_ must follow it, even those of us that wish a lifetime to ourselves—you call us freefliers. A male must prove his strength if he wishes for Alduin's favour to continue our race."

Pyrus tipped his head. "And have you won this right?"

" _Niid_. I am a freeflier myself."

"So how do I know you aren't lying to me?"

The dragon strained against its chains with an enraged snarl. " _Vir krilon hi?!_ You doubt my honour?! I gave you my word and I answer your questions. Impertinent mortal, what more? Next you will demand teachings of the Voice! Or perhaps you will demand even more of me! You will free me so I may come to you at your whim to vanquish those that upset you! _Niid!_ You will not question my honour or I will say nothing more to you!"

His anger was terrible; Pyrus had actually recoiled in a brief moment of panic. The chains echoed heavily through the stone pit. When the dragon calmed, it gave him a look of deep disgust. "You know nothing of my people, _mey joor_ , else you would be wiser than that."

"I apologize." Pyrus advanced cautiously. "I apologize for what I said. I just…I had only wished to ascertain the truth you told to me. I was not tactful."

The dragon scrutinized him fiercely. "I know," it snarled, "because our mothers educate us upon all there is to know of the world. A dragonling grows on knowledge. The more that we know, the larger and the stronger we grow, and the stronger our Voices become in turn. Sworn secrets are great boons to our soul, and a responsibility all our kind uphold. I have betrayed my kin in sharing one of them upon you, little mage, but I am not new to betrayal." It heaved its shoulders, and its chains clanked like some dire promise. "It is proving fortunate for you, is it not?"

"Very much so," Pyrus murmured, his mind latched upon a vital piece of information he had not heard before, and so would certainly need. "How did you say that a dragonling grows?"

The dragon glared at him and spoke with suspicion. "You possess an unhealthy interest in the rearing of our new generations. _Zu'u drehni hi ov_ —I do not trust you. What is it that you intend to do with this information?"

Pyrus wondered if his excitement showed in his eyes, and he wondered if the dragon sensed it. "That doesn't matter," he reminded it sternly. "You gave me your word you would answer my questions and I gave you mine that when I had all I need, I would break your chains."

"A despicable agreement," the dragon hissed. "If I had not urgent business elsewhere, I would not have agreed at all."

"But you did." Pyrus wanted to laugh at the dragon's helplessness it slowly was revealing to him. "Tell me, quickly. How are wyrms raised?"

"Wyrms? Wyrms are grown, independent; as much as their mothers can teach them, and then the world is open to them. They will grow on their actions and what knowledge they gain from their experiences. Hatchlings, however, can grow only from their mothers. They cannot fly, and so while bound to the earth's embrace they are vulnerable. They must learn quickly, and take flight as soon as they are able. That is when the mother knows her duty is done."

"And how long would this take?"

"It depends on how wise the mother herself proves. The hatchling depends upon her. If it does not receive knowledge, it cannot grow. If she has much to tell it of the world, then it will grow quickly. From a few years to decades, this time may span." The dragon looked especially angry with itself as it muttered next, "The Voice is another sworn secret, the first to be betrayed to mortality; ultimately, learning it uplifts a hatchling to the sky."

"Does the mother have to teach it to them?" Pyrus asked quickly, with just a shred of worry. He couldn't Shout any more than he could fly—so how in the name of the gods could he teach his dragonling its sworn secrets?

The dragon pulled meditatively against its chains. "For the most of us. We are all born with the Voice, but learning individual Shouts, integrating its purpose into our soul and blood, that takes the most time. Shouts demand knowledge as much as we do. But sometimes instinct can be enough." Its nostrils flared, its fangs bared. "The purer the blood, the stronger the Shout, the more rapidly it may be learned. We draw our power straight from Akatosh. _Bormah sos wahl un kiindahqaar._ The purer our blood, the stronger the resonation from our Divine Father."

It leaned forward. "Now, _mal fahliil_ , what is it you intend with this information? Two secrets I have told you of—and you will not cease in your incessant questioning?"

"Not yet," Pyrus smiled. _So much I have learned in this precious hour…_ He looked quickly at the balconies above the Trench. Still, they were alone. _For how much longer?_

"They will not come," the dragon rumbled. "These _feynsedov_ have grown arrogant in their victories across the years. They know I cannot escape on my own. They do not expect anyone to have discovered the entrance to their prison. They will not come until morning, and by then you shall be gone, and I shall be free."

"Of course," Pyrus murmured. He let lightning dance idly across his palm. The dragon observed the flash almost hungrily. "Tell me," said Pyrus slowly, "how eggs are hatched."

Reports from the first Dragon Wars claimed that the dragons appeared not to breed. They just _were_. No sightings or word of eggs or hatchlings and much less wyrms. This secret would be spoken this night, and he would learn what men from thousands of years ago had not discovered.

A low, furious rumble thrummed in the dragon's throat. "You are treacherous, mage."

Pyrus let the heat in him peak; he transmuted it to lightning in his palms; he conjured a bolt and on its own sheared one of the chains that suspended the yoke to the ceiling. Red-hot shards of iron fell to the stone floor; the severed chain dangled beside the dragon's head. He looked astonished; Pyrus felt just that way; but just in time he collected himself. He concealed his amazement with a smirk half-hidden by the stiff travel-tangled bristles around his mouth. _My purpose is closer than ever, and my magic resonates with it. Even magic I have not practiced in years. I must be close._

"Need I remind you?" he asked.

" _Niid_ , _niid_ …" The dragon heaved a sigh. " _Dii rot zu'u ofan…zin zu'u los wah thaar…_ Very well; there is only one egg. That is all the mother has strength for. My knowledge is limited, and even if I had been granted the right to mate, I would not have been able to tell you much. The male does not remain to raise his offspring. All I understand is that the egg is concealed, close-guarded. The dragoness does not stray far from it. She conceals it most carefully, and it can depend upon her environment. She is selective of her camouflage, as the egg must be incubated in the essence of the blood and life it holds."

Pyrus listened urgently. "How so?"

The dragon growled. "Do not interrupt. It is shameful enough I speak these secrets to any who does not possess _sossedov_. The egg is imbued with the essence of its mother's Voice, and the purer the blood, the quicker and stronger the Voice develops in the hatchling if it wakes. The elements respond to our blood the strongest of all the rest. Elements will quicken the hatchling's growth within. A frost-mouth will wrap her egg in a skin of ice and wake it with her Voice when she feels it is time. A fire-mouth will do the same and rest her egg in a bed of embers she never lets grow cold. All in the hope that the hatchling will take to that element strongly and swiftly when its shells are broken. Those that have no privilege of isolated lairs will bury the egg in the ground. Rarely will she carry it with her. She cannot risk the egg to the mercilessness of the world. Nor does she want to demonstrate the weakness and vulnerability that is her unborn offspring, and herself, protecting it with her life."

"How long before the egg hatches, from its laying to the breaking shell?"

The dragon heaved its shoulders. "It varies; on the purity of the dragonling's blood, of the exposure to the natural power of the world's elements, these will affect the timing." Then it showed its fangs in a horrible grimace. "And if you hope to hatch a dragon's egg, then you are gravely mistaken, mage. The egg will not respond at all unless to its mother's Voice."

The floor seemed to fall away under Pyrus's feet. _What? How…?_

"Your hearts are all too easy to read, _joor_ ," the dragon cackled. "You thought yourself able in this matter? I began to suspect right from the beginning, when you showed such an interest in our young. Why else would you ask the questions you did? _Hinzaal vun_ , I am not half the fool that you are."

Pyrus shook his head in fury. _I did not come all this way to have failure thrust in my face._ "The egg's mother's dead," he said harshly. "I will hatch it. I will have its loyalty assured to me. I will have my dragon!"

"You will have nothing, _joor_. The egg will never awaken." The dragon flicked its gaze elsewhere. "And should you attempt to through unnatural means, then I can promise you that what comes from the egg will not be what you want. The hatchling will be forced from its sleep. There will be consequences, mage."

"And what unnatural means are these?" Pyrus demanded, coming closer. "Tell me, now!"

" _Niid!_ I will not, for its sake—!"

" _YOU WILL TELL ME!_ "

Lightning screamed through the Trench, driven by the desperate rage of its caster. Two chains buckled and shattered in their halves. The dragon's tail, finally freed from its suspension, slammed to the ground—and so did Pyrus, collapsing to his knees, resisting the tempting urge to fade into the tide of blackness suddenly swamping his senses.

There was a long silence. At last, breathing heavily, Pyrus lifted his head. The dragon stared at him…there was sorrow writ upon its face. Just sorrow. Had it detected his misery, his shame, the disbelief that would come of a purpose doomed never to be fulfilled?

Pyrus glared back, anger and humiliation mingling.

Then the dragon murmured, so quietly he strained to hear, " _Zu'u fen hifun_. I have only heard of this ritual. Perhaps it will make sense to you. There is, perhaps, a mean of 'shocking' the hatchling into wakefulness—rather like being disturbed in a deep sleep. I warn you, there are consequences."

Pyrus greeted this with stony silence.

"Very well." The dragon sounded thoroughly wretched with itself. " _Bormah, frolaaz zey_ …an egg entombed in ice can be driven into the world with fire. An egg still warm from the embers can be cracked with frost. Lightning strikes earth and shocks the deepest out of slumber. Blood of the beholder, may it vein the victim shell, both are sacrificed on unknown behalf. Draw it from the shell-sleep with your presence. _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz._ Give it life with fire and ice."

Then it hissed with such venom that Pyrus recoiled once again in alarm. " _Geh_ , you will have your dragon, mage," it spat, hurling itself violently against its chains, its fury barely restrained. "You will have it twisted, and cursed, and vile. Neither ice nor fire give life, only destroy it. You will reverse the nature of its core with such a ritual as this. It will be nothing true! _Kroved do vokiin laas!_ I should destroy you now for the blasphemy you welcome in your mind!" It fought furiously and haplessly against the manacle around the end of its snout. Pyrus scrambled back a safe distance, almost to the other end of the black pit, until finally the dragon fell still again, snorting heavily, muttering continually in its guttural tongue.

The reaction had shocked all thoughts from Pyrus's mind. When at last they came trickling back, he approached more tentatively. The chained creature glared at him with hatred that felt to burn worse than dragonfire. "I have answered your questions, _geh?_ " it snarled. "Then break my bonds and begone with you."

"There is one more."

The dragon said nothing, but its look of loathing deepened.

Pyrus maintained a safe distance between him and it, fully expecting his final request to upset it even further. But he could not be subtle. He had to know directly. "How do you assure a dragon's loyalty?"

And, quite unexpectedly, the dragon laughed, scornfully and without mirth.

" _Kaat un midrot vrah._ Bind his loyalty? You cannot; a dragon is no hound, no lesser beast lacking pride. We are proud and free, and choose the deserving of it. You are undeserving of such a thing, vile mage."

"I must make sure the dragonling will serve me."

"It will not. If the ritual succeeds, you will raise that cursed creature, and it will turn on you the moment it decides you are no longer of use. It will not suffer the shame of being reared by mortal hands. It would rather die. Our pride will not allow it."

"Then explain Vylornar's creature."

The dragon hesitated. "There _is_ something there, isn't there?" Pyrus checked gleefully. "Ausnahyol, the only one of his kind to willingly bend his wing. Why? What has Vylornar done to him to earn the dragon's loyalty?"

A strange noise rumbled in the chained creature's throat; almost like a whine and a growl rubbed harshly together. The pupils contracted in its emerald irises. Was it scared? "Ausnahyol," it breathed, "the dragon that is not."

"What do you mean?" said Pyrus impatiently. He was in no mood for further riddles. He had to get back to his egg.

"I know not. I know not." The dragon was agitated, stirring the chains that still bound it. "Only unchecked rumours that leap from tongue to tongue. I know not the truth, only that the word spoken of Ausnahyol is that he is _unnatural_. He and Vylornar are _more_ than allies. I cannot say what or why…but I am certain…I am _certain_ …that he who names himself _Strunseyol_ , Firestorm to you, he has done blasphemy upon both mortality and immortal." Its bronze scales bristled. "How else, _why_ else, would a son of time serve an ephemeral child so willingly?"

And again, it laughed humourlessly. " _Nuz wo los zu'u wah maat? Zu'u wo los nid vomedaas?_ "

Pyrus put a hand against his chest, felt the blemished hollow in his ribs. _Dragonfire that scarred me, yet it was cast from mortal hands…and I, who said his abilities preceded expectation, comprehension…_ He looked suddenly at the dragon, still rumbling with false mirth, and exclaimed, "This ritual's been done before—fire and ice—destructive restoring, death awakening life—whatever you said—Vylornar did it upon Ausnahyol, didn't he?"

The dragon stared darkly upon him. "I cannot say, _mal fahliil_ ," it whispered. "I am not of Alduin's _kosil kenlok_ —inner circle. I only know that Ausnahyol is no more a true _dovah_ than the hapless infant you intend to torment and enslave through such twisted magic."

 _That's how,_ Pyrus thought wildly, _that's how it's been done. How I intend to do it._ He felt giddy with a tide of emotion he hardly could express. _Where to start? How to begin? And where to perform it? The secrets…secrets of dragonkind at last imparted upon me…_ No, he needn't say it again. He already had it, he already knew.

"You follow a path of evil, firehand," the dragon growled. "Akatosh will curse you." His nostrils flared. "The beauty of Aetherius will be denied you if you perform this sacrilege upon His child. The hatchling is best left to sleep forever than waken blinded and bound."

Pyrus shook his head. _I have come too far. The dragon is mine. I will learn what I will learn. It is my purpose and I will see it through._ The flame quickened through his blood. He felt an overwhelming desire to release the energy building slowly and grandly within.

And then he changed its type, focused carefully, and released.

Chain lightning—a skill he'd explored while associating its practice with commanding and steering a fireball even when it had left his hand. He'd applied its theory to his flame, and now he merely reversed it back to its original learning. His mind was clearer than it had been in weeks; the iron chains felt as brittle as twigs and succumbed easily to the multiple bursts of purple-fringed white that erupted from his fingertips.

When it was over, he'd hardly broken a sweat, and energy continued to burn through him. The huge, heavy chains, built to humble fire made flesh, lay in ruin. The few that had escaped shattering were weakened; the dragon pulled itself free with envious ease and a vicious snarl of satisfaction. It swung its head back to Pyrus, brandishing the cuff around its snout. "Quickly," it growled. "I cannot escape this infernal gaol when denied of my _Thu'um_."

It took longer than the chains, but that too was broken—and when it was done, the dragon at once turned its sights upon the balcony above their heads and drew a tremendous breath. Having witnessed what followed, Pyrus dived out of the way.

The dragon screamed, blue thunder roared, and the old stone yielded and crumbled past them to the floor, skipping over the shards of the chains. The entire Trench trembled. The corridor above was suddenly a good deal more exposed—a line of cells was visible. "What are you doing?" Pyrus exclaimed, startled by the dragon's choice of direction. Its hope of escape was surely not through the fortress that lay above their heads?!

"Begone!" the dragon bellowed; its tail came out of nowhere and smacked Pyrus clean off his feet and into the iron gate. "No more shall die to me, I vowed, and I keep my word!" It summoned another deep breath and roared again. There was a distant response of shouting—mortal shouts and cries of alarm—the clatter of weapons and armour. Pyrus placed a hand upon his aching gut and started. There was a stickiness stained in his robes, and for one horrifying moment he thought he'd been cut—but the blood staining his robes was black and smeared clumsily, and went no deeper than the cloth. It was the dragon's, come from fresh closing wounds along its tail its captors had undoubtedly inflicted. The reason for its vengeance was immediately explained, and Pyrus had witnessed enough of a dragon's fury to know it was unwise to linger. He scrambled hurriedly through the grille as the cacophony behind him swelled in volume and fury.

Then he cast invisibility upon himself once more and fled into the first night of autumn.

 **d|b**


	48. XXXXVII - Kosil Kenlok

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

Ironically, the winding corridors within the ancient fortress were named for various parts of the Serpent. Viper felt right at home if for that alone.

She'd entered them quick-breathed and fighting down nerves, for once more she was in the shadow of the dragon; but with darkness wreathed around her, the elder assassin at her side, and her pockets burdened with the stuff of her own creation, her fear was soon lost. Something else rose in its stead; something focused, something more like she'd been as she stepped into the party in _Aardiiah_ , and succeeded in seducing a Dragonlord of infamous renown. Something more like she'd been.

It felt good.

The ruins were guarded without, but the blizzard lingered and shrouded them easily from the tired eyes that watched the lonely fortress. It was almost effortless to scale the frozen stone cliffs down to the rooftops, to approach the enormous opening that had been made—no, _blasted_ —into the slopes of the mountains around it, that led down and down further into the lightless interior. They descended carefully, helping each other in a similar way she and Nevada had escaped Cadmir's keeping together. Thanks were acknowledged with small nods or wordless movements; then they slid into the unknown. A large passage might be open and yawning above their heads, leading directly to their destination, but the corridors themselves remained the only means of access to wherever the gathering was taking place. Neither had wings to carry them there.

It was a maze that at first confused Viper, but gradually she welcomed its many twists and turns. It was almost like a game, finding their way there while remaining unseen. Lifting maps and orders from idle, unaware dragonmen guards were but clues; of course their superiors would not impart the knowledge of their meeting place to their lowly subjects. The Listener melded seamlessly in pools of black, and a weary watchman might pass inches from her mask and never know she was there. As for Viper, she still played with the shadows. She had been a thief for too long to immediately abandon them. However, it was different, for now they would serve her purposes, and these illusions were her own. With ignorance lost and mindfulness gained, she ruled them now. They were out of reach from even the Daedra.

Deeper they delved in perfect silence. The fortress was becoming gradually familiar to Viper; there was a pattern to the layout of the tunnels. She might be able to feel her way through one even in complete darkness. Sometimes they surprised her; they opened into broad shallow chambers with cavernous ceilings, lit by a faint bluish hue that came from glittering pale gems. She approached one curiously and ran her fingertips across it, and a peculiar vitality—not wholesome, but sharper, more volatile—trickled through her blood, honing her mind and focus to a dagger-tip point.

"Welkynd stones," the Listener mused thoughtfully. "These are not found easily in Skyrim. It assists magic users and alchemists especially. Even these weaker variants they will welcome." In her hand appeared a small knife seemingly from nowhere, and skillfully removed several fist-sized cerulean fragments that continued to pulse gently with faint blue light. They vanished into the black folds of her robes.

 _Celandine used to tell me tales about these rocks,_ Viper reflected, as they left this particular chamber behind them. _I never thought them real._ Already she was wondering how she could put the essence contained within the stones to use in her poisons. Anything's effects could be reversed with the necessary ingredients and practice; it might make a deadly weapon to use upon mages; to drain their magical vitality until the mere thought of casting a spell exhausted them.

She returned her mind to the matter at hand, as the ground quaked gently under them, and a distant booming met their ears. _The serpent's cousins._ "We must be close," she breathed aloud. The Listener agreed, nodding thoughtfully. The sound had come from above their heads; perhaps they were underneath the meeting chamber.

They followed this corridor, briefly retreating into the deeper darkness as two dragonmen sauntered bickering past them. Clad in steel scale-like armour, bearing blazing brands, the darkness yielded quickly and resumed just as swiftly as the burning flames continued their uninterrupted journey through the bowels of the stronghold. Viper watched them go, lip curled in their wake. Two mortal souls that had pledged themselves to commit unspeakable acts upon their brethren and fellow short-lived races. There were fewer sights viler than a betrayer that walked so freely.

"Sister-friend," a voice beckoned. Viper turned; the Listener had drawn ahead. They followed the corridor to its end; a heavy door stood in the centre, and between them and it, a single soldier, torches on his either side. A gate rusted and locked stood off in the shadow cast by one of the brands.

They took refuge from the revealing fires behind a pile of fallen rubble, which looked to have come down from the ancient ceiling. There, in hushed whispers, they discussed how best to proceed.

"They are within," the Listener breathed.

Viper looked at her sidelong. "How can you be sure?"

"Nefarious disturbances in the darkness; magic unbridled and barely checked in the rage-swept hearts of the sky children. They are within, I am certain of it. How long they have been gathered there, I know not." The Listener sounded almost like someone else; she even spoke differently, as though the voice-changing enchantment inlaid within her mask had influenced her further. "The Night Mother has asked for no lives, and the Void calls for no souls. We cannot risk being discovered, and time cannot be wasted to circle around and seek another means inside. We have been led here as much as fate as we have led ourselves; we must continue."

Viper fingered the phials on her belt, and removed one from the rest. "Essence of Nirn," she breathed. "Complete paralysis, to wear away after three hours. Give me your knife."

The Listener did so. Viper dipped her fingertip into the smooth mixture, inhaling its fresh scents deeply as she did; nirnroot was its primary ingredient, a plant that continued to surprise with its many easily manipulated properties. She tipped the blade with the poison, taking extreme care not to cut herself. The poison worked when it made contact with blood. She made to pass the dagger back, but the Listener shook her head. She turned to one of the torches instead, muttered something almost like a barely audible prayer or chant, and the fire shivered as if to an invisible wind; then it died entirely.

The guard swore and proceeded to it. His attention elsewhere, Viper took advantage of his distracted state. Nonetheless, her hand shook as she bore the knife. She had not wielded a blade of any kind before, and she feared she would be too clumsy with it.

His back was turned, busy with the bait; by the time the other torch behind him cast her shadow long and into his sights, he did not react in time. She pressed the knife under his jaw and sheathed its tip in his repulsively soft flesh. His gasp of surprise strangled in his petrified throat. It struck her then, the possibility, revolting at first, and yet…this was the opportunity of a kill…no, of _murder_ …

It passed. Struggling with his weight, Viper guided his stiffened form to the ground, stepped back, and took his ankles as the Listener lifted him by his shoulders. On some unspoken command they carried him to their hiding place. This had not cost them much more than a few seconds.

Viper trembled freely as she stepped back. The knife was in her hands still, its end dabbed scarlet. Easily, she could have given him death. All she'd needed to do was place a little more thrust behind her blow, and the dagger would slide up through his head and into his brain. Briefly she wondered why she'd wasted her poison upon him, why she'd not simply done that; she was no Sister of the Brotherhood, she did not risk upsetting a deity she did not serve by killing more than she needed to.

 _Because he would have been my first,_ she realized. That idea had stayed her impulse, oddly. So what if the unfortunate dragonman had been her first kill? His life was no different than any other man's or mortal's. She looked between the knife and him, and wondered what was stopping her from doing it now.

The Listener's hand rested upon her shoulder.

"You did not take his life then," she whispered. "You will not do it now." The firelight behind them cast an eerie light over the scarlet handprint symbol upon the centre of her forehead, proclaiming it more than ever, and Viper stared at it blankly.

"Why didn't I do it?" she asked.

The Listener tilted her head. "Because your path is still in shadow."

She proceeded to the door and pressed herself against it. "The door is barred from the inside." Her attention turned to the gate, and she tried it. "Merely locked."

Viper dropped to the dragonman's side and rummaged swiftly through his pockets. Her hands resurfaced bearing a cold brass key. She tossed it to the Listener, who snatched it from the air and tamed the gate with it. It opened with a protesting moan. Viper came to her companion's side and looked through the darkness that greeted them. The chamber was winding upward, sloping steeply; and she thought she could make out distant voices.

She didn't know what to expect, so she said nothing as she and the Listener climbed the stairs and followed the new corridor uphill. The gate was closed softly behind them, locked from within, the key tucked down the assassin's sleeve.

The corridor bent sharply; the windowed walls overlooked a large room below them. It was far more open than the rest they had seen. The ceiling fell slanted, angled like a funnel, and Viper suddenly knew where the unnatural opening in the mountain led. She looked to the floor far below them, and froze in fright at the distant sight that greeted her. Shapes small and large, grand and sleek, stood gathered together and washed in the faint grey glow of a brazier brimming with silver flame. Their shadows stretched very long behind them, so even the mortals arranged in a half-circle around the brazier looked impressively large.

But shadows were but illusions; the mortal men were not nearly as large as the dragons that gathered in a second half-circle behind them.

Their presence filled the chamber until it seemed shrunken around them. The grey light cast them all in pale washed colour, but their hides were still vibrant enough for Viper to recognize their colouring and patterns through the gloom that separated them. The dragons were of all shapes, all sizes, all markings. They could only have been of different breeds, at least one of each. She counted seven Dragonlords, ten dragons. They were talking; their long, deep rumbles and guttural snarls pervaded the air. Viper might not have understood them once…but the Vernaculum was doing its work. She could make out indistinct but definite words on the fringe of her hearing, words that she sensed she would understand, if only she were closer.

"That's them down there, isn't it?" she rasped.

The Listener nodded. "Dragons and lords are gathered, and dragons and lords are speaking. We are too far to hear anything they say. Come."

Viper followed wordlessly, but her heart was racing. _All are gathered there…Dragonlords, and there are more than the three that dominate Skyrim…they are come from all across Tamriel…and the dragons behind them, who are they? Commanders, leaders, generals or lieutenants among their own kin? They cannot be anything ordinary. This is more than a congregation of loyalists of Alduin_ …She clung to the darkness more than ever as she followed the Listener farther down the hall. The echoes resonating past them slowly sharpened, until at last, they heard.

"…have to say of progress in Hammerfell?"

At the edge of her subconscious Viper knew they spoke in fluent, flawless Draconic; but Vernaculum tingled through her veins, reminding her of the magic she had imbued herself with. She crouched beside the window, watching the silhouettes from afar, and wishing she was further.

But she could not deny she was fascinated. A dragon moved out of the shadows and closer to the grey fire, preparing to respond. Its scales hinted gold and white, but its eyes burned plain amber; Viper could discern the glitter of its stare as far as she was. It was larger than many others, she noted, though she recalled that Elders could grow very large. Her long periods of watching the dragons circling above the rooftops of Slavetrap had granted her knowledge of the types. She felt she'd seen them all, or at least most.

"Forty-six eggs are reported to have hatched," the dragon pronounced grandly. "Three were forbidden offspring, and they and their mothers have paid the necessary price. I have seen to this myself, to deliver in confidence that they will not taint the generations to come. Twenty are born of brown-skins, fourteen of Elders, six of Ancients, three of Revered."

"That is not enough, Klosumah," declared a scarlet-scaled creature, which was even larger than the Elder. Sternly it turned to the other. "Only three? The Revered are our most able of our soldiers. They do not fear to delve under the skin of the planet. Sand or sea cannot stop them, and against the unruly subjects that dominate the hot sands, they prove most efficient in uprooting dissent."

Klosumah nodded. "I am aware of this. No Revered hatchling was forbidden. All will grow to serve our great lord."

The Red dragon's nostrils flared. "Nonetheless, breeding of the Revered must increase. It will take time before the hatchlings are grown. A whole generation of mortality may cycle through before the wyrms are ready to serve our master."

"I will see to it that breeding increases, brother."

The Red spoke more deeply than the Elder. Viper already had the distinct impression that the yellow creature Klosumah was a female; she seemed certain of it. What better than to supervise the production of new generations than one born to birth life?

"Our wild kin remain respectful of our laws," Klosumah went on. "More have surrendered their territories to join our numbers. The continuing conflict between mortal and dragon in Hammerfell has stirred their appetite for flesh and blood." Scornfully she looked among her brethren. "The dark men wish to feel our Voices turn their bones to dust. How can we deny them when it pleasures us as well as them?" Rough, cruel laughter sounded from many scaled throats.

"You should not gloat, my dear," interrupted an eloquent speaker. Viper's attention snapped to him, and she recognized him; Vylornar took a pace forward with his flame-coloured robes sweeping majestically in his wake. "A rebellion that has persisted across the length of our reign is not one to find amusement in," he continued, and Klosumah snarled.

"You insult my honour, you foul little worm?"

"He insults no-one, sister," the Red observed, looking between the two of them. "Vylornar speaks truth; this uprising in Hammerfell slights our honour, and we laugh at them. The First Quelling saw our kin vanquished at the hands of mortality, and their first rising against our might succeeded. They have not forgotten this, and nor should we."

"We succeeded where first we failed," Klosumah growled.

"That we did, and we should not review this in arrogance. That was our downfall. We must be wiser, and firmer in dealing with cunning soft-skins as are these Redguard filth. As Ancient Eldest, all of us—" The red gazed among his kin, nodding their affirmation to their spoken status. "—we would all do well to remember how we failed and why, to ensure that we will not do so again. This world is made ours and we will keep it this way until the end of time."

There was an emanation of authority about this scarlet beast that Viper sensed did not exist in many, if any, others of his present kin. Madly she wondered if this might be the World-Eater, but at once chased the thought down. The firstborn of Akatosh was spoken to be as black and foul as the heart of night, death given shape and life to destroy. She looked quickly among the gathered dragons, and none met the description. Reds were rare, but certainly a race. "You said he'd be here," she whispered nervously.

"He is." The Listener leaned closer to the window. " _Both_ are."

"I can't see them."

"They do not wish to be seen—but they are here, as are we."

The Elder dragoness hissed furiously. "You treasure that maggot's every word!" She glowered upon Vylornar, who continued to hold her burning glare. "He is a mortal! He will die be it tomorrow or a hundred years from now, but he is _certain_ to die! Doom-bound, and you trust in his every word." She turned scathingly on the red dragon. "If it had not been you to bring his name to Alduin's ears, I would have turned him to blood and ashes long ago."

"Enough, Klosumah." The Red spoke firmly, energy quavering in his every word. "I understand your doubts, but Vylornar has proven his use. He serves our number faithfully and continues to deliver where many others would fail." Now his attention rested upon the Dragonlord that stood before Klosumah. "You are quick to criticize one, I notice, while one who has failed in his authority to reassert our dominance over Hammerfell stands before you."

"I have not failed you, my lords!" The accused Dragonlord spoke loudly, but not loudly enough to mask his distinctly human cadence. He was Redguard; only they spoke in the sand-swept lilt that befit their race.

Klosumah looked upon him distastefully. "Your small victories do not atone for your many mistakes, little worm. If your fate was mine to decide…" The venom in her voice was directed at the purple stone the Redguard Dragonlord wore at his throat. It was rather familiar to Viper, and she recalled what power it brought its bearer.

"Cirroc has undeniably performed acceptable work in at least the north of Hammerfell," said yet another Dragonlord, a Breton. Viper felt the chills of the cold cell under her skin, but quickly she realized it was not Cadmir, and that at least offered her a very small shred of comfort.

Cirroc nodded quickly. "Yes, my lords. Craglorn has offered a new generation of able soldiers, spearmen and swordsmen: six hundred from Dragonstar and Elinhir alone. I have also received word from Bangkorai. Hallin's Stand has offered Brother Borissean ninety unbled girls in humble tribute to our great lord, all collected from the families that chose so unwisely to rebel with the Merigard fools. Borissean hosted the feast himself, and made sure the entire city was in attendance, particularly those that had been so keen to resist against our rule. It was a success, of course, and the people are subjugated once more. I doubt any more will be so keen to aid the Merigard, if only to save a few more of their daughters." He fingered his violet crystal during his monologue, as if to reassure himself.

"I take it that this is why Borissean himself is not in attendance," said another from across the circle.

"Borissean has decided to oversee the crushing of this nuisance personally." The answering Dragonlord's tone turned sharp and scouring. "And, I recall, _I_ was chosen to represent my country."

The huge crimson dragon snarled his mirth. "Your country no longer, little mortal," he reminded. "Count yourself privileged that you have a chance to serve our glorious overlord. _Alduin thuri_." He looked sternly among the rest, and all said the same. Klosumah chuckled nastily over the Dragonlord's shoulder.

"I wonder why he chose you to serve in his stead, Cirroc," a Frost Dragon observed. There was no mistaking his frigid patterning in the gloom, nor the way every word spoken seemed to freeze solid in Viper's mind, until her blood was running cold again. "Joorpaalrah has vouched for you, and that alone tempts us to respect you; but you have given us nothing worthy of respect yet, little mortal. You have only come repeating Bloodsand's victories. You have presented none of your own." He lurched forward on his talons with a final sneer. "Only marked your stupidity in daring to claim what is not yours."

Cirroc positively bristled. "How dare you! In Borissean's stead I was chosen to represent and report the affairs of Hammerfell, to Alduin himself!" He advanced a few paces upon the Frost Dragon while his pendant glowed warningly upon his chest. "So do I need to remind _you_ of your place?"

A long, evil hiss rattled in the Frost's throat. It was echoed among all its brethren. The Dragonlords stared at him in disgusted silence.

"Your ignorance is both understandable and repulsive, child of Hammerfell." It was a boldly coloured dragon that spoke, shaded every colour of fire and struck through with streaks of bright black. It rose from its place behind Vylornar, its every detail cast in sharp relief. It had the similar markings of an Ancient, and yet it stood between two of them and Viper thought that down to the shape of its body and the vibrant range of its colouring, it looked nothing alike.

"The Rendingstone is a gift from the Dragonborn, a token of his esteem—and you betray his confidence if you dare to use it to satisfy yourself, to abuse the shred of absolute power Joorpaalrah has granted to you."

Cirroc hesitated, then stepped back, head bowed.

"And you know this well, Ausnahyol?" Klosumah sneered. "You, who bends his wing so willingly to his lord, who carries him upon his back like a horse? Oh yes, dragon who is not; yes, you would know this very well indeed."

The fire-skinned dragon trembled with fury. Vylornar placed his palm lightly against the dragon's snout, a soundless warning passing between them, then stepped forward to once more confront the Elder dragoness. "Ausnahyol does indeed know this well, as well as any dragon here," he said, still gracefully courteous. "His reasons to assist me are, of course, his own. No Rendingstone I need to see the privilege of Tamriel under my feet, but that does not make Ausnahyol any less a magnificent creature as you." He gave a short bow. "Forgive us if the lack of my pendant offends you, but I had hoped that my actions would speak the esteem that Joorpaalrah has placed in me, and in my short life I intend to commit many."

Klosumah's nostrils flared, but she said nothing. It seemed like a signal for acceptance, for Vylornar bowed again and returned to Ausnahyol's side.

"Which begs the question," the Frost Dragon continued, and turned jeeringly on the figure to Vylornar's left. "Do you too see no need of your Rendingstone, Ollos? I see no brother of mine uplifted behind you, to carry you whenever you wish."

 _Ollos_. Viper watched him step forward to acknowledge the question, or challenge; he was dressed in the same elegant finery that he'd worn during the party in Servitude, his eyes deep red and dry of blood. The stone was absent. She remembered pulling it from his neck, recalled the rage in his eyes as he vowed to find her, to make her suffer for what she had done to him. He'd come so close to making good on his oath; but he would never get that far again. _We are free of Cadmir and Ollos too_. She might be right above his head right now, but she would not fall into the clutches of a Dragonlord ever again. The instinctive fear ebbed slowly to nothing. She watched the Dunmer Dragonlord intently, but without terror. That day was done.

"Yes, tell us if it is true what the slaves say," the Breton Dragonlord encouraged, "that a common thief is responsible for the loss you have suffered, third of the five."

Ollos's response was colder than winter. "This is not your concern, or the concern of the inner circle," he growled. "Neither of our overlords need hear this extensively. We have other matters to occupy ourselves with." Immediately he turned back to Dragonlord Cirroc. "You. Remind us of the Merigard's current power over the west provinces. Correct me if I'm wrong, but my prisoners have, under questioning, sung to me; that from Sentinel to Taneth, Rihad to Stros M'kai, songs of crippled men slaying the hundredhead dragon pervade the air, while men in the north of High Rock drink to the death of the Dread and World-Eater both."

An uncomfortable ripple passed through the gathered.

"The hundredhead dragon?" Viper breathed. _The smugglers did not tell me this tale…_

"The Merigard's power should not have grown," said Vylornar, as coldly as Ollos before him.

Klosumah snarled. "Humans breed like pestilence in the rot."

"Were they not crushed in the purge?" demanded the Dunmer Dragonlord whom Viper did not know.

"They were crushed," said Cirroc irritably, "and they were crippled. Their numbers and forces were depleted, their cities torched to dust. Their stupid little uprising should have been forgotten and cast aside as a tale to teach and warn—"

"—and instead, cities are openly resisting our sovereignty, refusing to send tributes, and what were once rogue bands of outcasts banished to the deserts and wastes are now growing into armies," Ollos concluded. "This has also been very well contained within the afflicted provinces. The borders have been closed. Travel is denied. Any that attempt to leave their cities are put to the sword or the flame." He looked among the rest of the dragons. "What say you to this? You were rather swift to deny me an opportunity to use the last rebellious figurehead that was caught, while you let these Merigard betrayers run rampant through the west, unchecked, unchallenged."

"Borissean would disagree," said Cirroc stiffly. "He could not come, because he is now leading an active investigation upon these betrayers. He will uproot this rebellion root and stem and seed before it is even sown." He glared at Ollos. "Whispers breed whispers; Hammerfell and High Rock is restless, but Skyrim was never a polished jewel. Don't think I haven't heard about these Nords of Old. All of Tamriel must've heard it by now."

"They are a new enemy," said Ollos coolly. "Merigard is not." He stepped forward. "This is an old enemy, weak but persistent, like poison still tainting a healed wound. They were born in the end of the Fourth Era, sired first of Hammerfell. That province had been restless ever since the end of the Great War. The enemy of Tamriel was in the form of the Aldmeri Dominion, and unlike the Imperial Empire, the Redguards never stopped fighting them. Briefly the world was distracted when the dragons made their glorious return; yes, even they were distracted, too. Dragons seemed more of a threat than Elves. Then the Dragonborn did what no god or prophecy foretold; he turned his back on it—and after that, the world became very interesting.

"Skyrim was the first province to fall. It was a necessary element in Alduin's great plan to bring back his army from the dead. As Joorpaalrah oversaw the removal of the mortal threats, the World-Eater raised his kin from their deathly sleep. The cities burned, the people surrendered, the land subjugated. The dragons could now spread their supremacy from a home territory. The Empire was weak, already worn dry from the Great War, easily crushed. The Dominion put up a more worthy fight, but they too crumbled into ash. Argonia never fought, but offered allegiance at once. Between these times Hammerfell and High Rock, under siege from Alduin's forces, signed a treaty that united the peoples of Redguard, Breton and Orsimer, and withstood for three years. They were the last of the resistances to succumb. Both provinces surrendered, each city yielded. It seemed that the spirit was indeed crushed from the spectacular defeat of Merigard.

"But the humans bred of the deserts are more resilient than the humans bred of the snow or the comfortable heartland. My prisoners have told me most marvelous tales about a resistance that never died. Ringleaders of the Merigard escaped the dragons' wrath, living as outcasts in the sands or pirates upon the seas. The common people keep to the idea that the Merigard will rise again, harder and stronger after this century of torment; all they await is an opportunity to seize, a rallying call to kindle the spark, a moment of weakness in the face of the oppression. They sing a most memorable epitaph: so long as hope is not forgotten, as long as brothers and sisters are loyal, as long as they never lose sight of the truth, then even a crippled man may rise to slay the hundredhead dragon."

Ollos turned to Cirroc. "It appears I am more aware of the potential threat Merigard poses than you, Brother. Ulfric Stormcloak ignited a rebellion by killing the last High King. The civil war consumed Skyrim in its last days of its freedom. A handful of humans succeeded in causing chaos for an empire—and before that, the Great War; humans against elves. You should not underestimate the cunning of mortal men." He turned then to the Breton Dragonlord. "A similar story is told in High Rock. Its influence is seeping across the borders. Merigard concerns you too, Lucifer—how has the rebellion influenced your position?"

The Breton Dragonlord chuckled. "Would you believe it, Ollos, but we've had more trouble with beasts than men. Our mountains have suddenly become far more dangerous. Falmer have been raiding the villages."

"Falmer?" echoed several Dragonlords in surprise.

"They are putrid little creatures, once a race as sentient as the mer and men," explained Dragonlord Lucifer, "until they were driven underground by the Nords, and then their hesitant allegiance with the earth-dwelling Dwemer backfired. They were hideously transformed and lost their minds, living like rats in the gloom under our feet even long after the Dwemer withdrew from the world. The Falmer were not a threat to dragonkind before, but in this last decade they have been coming across the borders, raiding and killing any that walk above. We are yet to define the purpose of these unusual attacks, and so far every attempt to root them out has ended in drastic defeats. Our soldiers fight better under the sky, not underground." He looked around, smiling wryly at the unimpressed expressions many of his fellows wore. "I assure you, my good lords, I would not have presented this at our gathering if I did not think it was a matter of concern. Villages are one matter; the deaths of dragons are rather another."

Wings rustled, soft snarls thrummed in scaled throats, and Dragonlords exchanged glances. "The sightless shadow-dwellers have been hunting our kind?" demanded a cobalt-coloured dragon, tipped with copper horns and claws. Viper had not seen its like before.

"Yes, brother." The dragon behind Lucifer shuffled closer to the silver fire, and at once its disfigured face was presented. It had hung back before, but now its scars were brazen to all; one half of its face looked to have been mutilated, a misshapen empty socket all that remained of its eye. It was rather dourly reminiscent of Nevada. The other dragons snarled in fury at the sight of its brethren's blemishes.

"Venriikkest—they did this to you?" hissed the cobalt copper-horned beast.

"I misjudged this enemy," the mutilated creature snarled, "as I know you shall all. What is there to fear from something that cannot even see? Fear what they know, and how they fight. They are precise and organized. They know where to strike. They know our weaknesses and anticipate our movements. They fight with the fury of Akatosh. I barely escaped. My kindred did not. Twelve nesting mothers were murdered in one night. The eggs were not found, intact or broken. The worms withdrew after killing the mothers, and the eggs they took with them."

The dragons screamed their rage. "Defilers! Heathens!" they howled, Klosumah loudest of them all. Ausnahyol, Viper noticed, remained silent.

"Venriikkest, Lucifer," Vylornar inquired over the outburst, "what could the Falmer possibly want with dragon eggs? They would be of no use to them unless they knew how to hatch them."

"Alas, we know very little about their true motives," said Lucifer, "and since none are capable of speaking a coherent language, I doubt even Ollos will be able to extract the necessary answers. The underground is the one place a dragon will not enter. Separated from their Father's sphere, they are certain to go mad."

"This cannot stand," the Red growled, lashing his tail. "Find these treacherous worms. Destroy their means of access to High Rock if you cannot locate their festering lairs."

"We will not cease in our attempts, my lord." Dragonlord Lucifer turned to Ollos. "As for the Merigard, I confess freely, their activities challenge the opinions of the common servants. Our soldiers work day and night to reinforce the rightful dominion. While I can assure Sharnhelm and Northpoint maintain their due loyalties, Wayrest and Daggerfall choose to fester with the mortal disease. There is much talk among the dragons, my lords; they call for a traitor's purge of the province once again."

An excited whispering swept throughout the gathered dragons. Again, Ausnahyol remained silent. The Elder's accusation replayed through Viper's curious mind. _The dragon who is not…_

"The purge should extend beyond the stone hills of the half-mer," Klosumah barked. "Hammerfell is tainted and festering with dissent. All the corrupt lands must be purged in fire!" She looked impressively among her kin, and none of them argued. Enthusiastic exchanges were heard, tails lashed, wings snapped, her last two words echoed eagerly.

"That decision is not yours to make," said Cirroc curtly.

"Nor is it yours," the Elder snarled, "but our overlord's." Then she turned and gazed into the blackness beyond her. " _Alduin thuri_ ," she pronounced solemnly, and in thunderous unison the phrase was echoed behind her. "First son of the Father, would you grant us the sweet desire of cleansing the world of weakness once more?"

And the blackness fell away.

Viper could barely breathe in the mingling of horrified amazement that coursed through her veins, as she witnessed the closest thing to the darkest miracle that she might ever see. The gloom melded a shape from the shadow, and the shape leaned forward, until the silver fire illuminated it, and even then, it was darker than the heart of night, darker than the passages of the mountains that had never known the sun. It wore the shape of a dragon but it could only have been something more. It was something far worse than any dragon there. It leaned forward, and the others shrank before it, as its malevolence spread to fill the entire chamber. Winter was on its breath; ice and fire burned together; the monster lifted its heavily crested head while eyes red as rubies glowed from the pits of its obsidian-scaled skull. Behind it unfurled two prodigious black wings that seemed to stir a scorching wind, for the wings of the other dragons shivered. They lowered their eyes, bowed their heads, and said not a word to disturb the sudden soundlessness that had descended.

The Listener sank to her knees.

 _She spoke of black wings that shadowed these mountains._ Viper could only stare, a queer ringing in her head, a skipping under every inch of her skin. _She was not wrong, and I should have known. He is here too. Of course we came, to glean knowledge directly from the very thing responsible for shaping the world for what it is. Cruel, driven madness is the reign of the World-Eater._

And there he was in his dreadful glory, the one the dragons named _thuri_ , and rightly so. His might had remained unchallenged for a hundred years and more, while the one born to defeat him was swayed to his side, in league and in service to the eldest of all dragonkind. Briefly Viper wondered where this one was; the Dragonborn, the greatest betrayer that there was. The Listener said he was here. Was he disguised in darkness, to be revealed only when he chose to? She looked more carefully among the Dragonlords below and could not see him present.

"All corrupt lands will be purged in fire," the god responded. Spoken in a growl lower than the soul of the world, it passed through and held mind and bone, and chilled the blood while it still ran warm through the veins of the living.

"My lord." Klosumah spoke excitedly. "Grant me the honour of leading this purge and I shall not fail you. Allow me to light the first fires. They will rise so high that all the provinces will see the smoke and know what it means to defy our might!"

"No." The World-Eater turned to her, stilling her with his stare. "I would have you serve me elsewhere." His every word trembled with power, and it hurt just listening to him.

Klosumah bowed quickly. "My lord, send me where you would." But even Viper heard the bitter disappointment the dragoness barely concealed.

"You will have a chance for blood, sister," Alduin growled. He looked among the circle of dragons before him and continued, "You will all have a chance for blood…and for redemption." He waited as though daring any to deny his accusation. When none did, he continued. "I confess I am discontented in what I have heard this night. My rule is rife with malcontent, treason, the common flesh daring to test the dragon's might. They were bowed and broken once; it is their own folly if they wish to try again when the outcome is inevitable, but I did not expect my own to disappoint in subduing these proffered challenges.

"You are immortal, everlasting, undying; mortals are growing stronger and cleverer, you claim. Excuses. Mortals are growing bolder, nothing more. Even the smallest victory made against us, they take to and bloat themselves with it. They are nothing compared to the power we hold, the eldest of all the races upon this world. I thought this alone would have allowed for effortless crushing of the worms that think themselves worthy of warring with us. Instead you come before each other, displaying your defeats and dishonours as though they put you in the right and those that offended you in the wrong. You have not responded in the way I expected of my kin.

"I will conclude." There was a profound, enraged silence. "You have all disappointed me."

The motionless silence that followed was nothing short of incredible.

"The south is purged once more," the god growled. "The fires burned high indeed. What was a memory to one generation is history to the next, and an inspiration to the one that follows. The High Elven origin lands and the Great Forests sought to reignite their perception of greatness in the form of what was once the Dominion of mer. In the few short years that my attention was turned elsewhere, armies were raised and resistances established. Fortresses were restored and stocked for the sole purpose of defying me. Then my brethren were torn from the skies, lashed to the earth, and tortured to death. This was a dishonour that I would not stand, and so it was Joorpaalrah and I flew south to deal with these treacherous fools.

"The Elves thought themselves well-prepared. They had enchanted every stone that fleshed their defying forts to withstand fire and ice. Their mages were skilled with their magic, their archers able with their bows and arrows. Devices they had also prepared, to snatch us from the sky, or to bury us alive in the embrace of the earth. They thought themselves impenetrable. I had no wish to needlessly sacrifice my brethren upon their forts. The south common flesh had miscalculated the degree of power that Joorpaalrah now bears.

"He has learned well from me. Those noble strongholds fell one by one, broken from within and shattered from without. None were spared; those that seek to challenge us will endure the consequences of defeat. The forests burned once again, all of them, down to scar the earth. I would not be surprised if we eradicated what was left of the native mer that lived under the trees. The heart of this newfound pestilence is certain never to beat again. Every city risen was cast down to rubble. Even the loyal ones were devoured. The Summerset Isles, it was once called." A soft laugh rumbled down Alduin's throat. "Now it is black and dead. An example to any province, and a warning of what should happen if they should challenge our birthright again.

"This news will spread to all corners of Tamriel. North, west and eastern folds will learn of the fate that has befallen the south. It is what awaits them if they favour the dead past over the living present. This is my mercy exacted, as it should be how you treat all of your subjects." The destroyer looked once more among his brethren, who had all raised their heads. "I will hear no further about a defeat among our number. They are mortal. We are timeless. We are gods among the inferior. Remind them of this."

"Yes, my lord." They spoke together, bowed very low; even Vylornar. He had remained perfectly emotionless throughout his leader's retelling of the 'purging' of Summerset, and was still as he straightened. He didn't look at all upset, or mortified, or indeed affected in any way. Viper didn't understand how he could feel nothing, nothing at all upon learning that the majority of his own kind were certainly dead, that the land he had been born and raised in was now smoking ruin. Hadn't he once served the Dominion himself, fought through the Great War?

 _Of course he should feel nothing_ , she told herself, even as she shuddered. _A Dragonlord's heart is black and cold, if he has one at all._

She glanced at the Listener. The Altmer assassin made not a sound. Viper wondered if she felt anything either. It was impossible to discern any emotion under the black and scarlet mask.

"I will not deny that rebellion ensues across my empire," Alduin rumbled. "It seems that mortals have grown most arrogant in my time absent of them." More sharply he added, "Submission I will have reassured. Tributes and sacrifices, traitor's purges before dragoneye, I will have them all until my dominance is set into ancestral memory."

"My lord Alduin." The Red spoke swiftly. "Your throne at your Eyrie I have guarded faithfully in your absence. I wish leave of that solemn duty, that I may serve you differently. Let me bend the will and hearts of the mortal men. They will be reminded of power, and plead for your mercy when you return."

"No." The god turned to him. "You shall not return to Skyrim. I have need of you elsewhere, my trusted ally."

The Red dragon dipped his head. "Where may I serve you?"

"You will make haste to the west folds. You served me well in the First Quelling. You served me well in the Second. You shall serve me again and ensure the end of Merigard. The honour of this purging of traitors and weakness belongs only to you. When this is done, accept the tributes and have oaths of fealty sworn in my name by the three traitor races concerned. Depending on their offerings, I will decide whether there is still some use for them in the future, or if they also prove obsolete. If they do not already know of the fate that has befallen the last three traitor races, you shall also bring those tidings, and ensure that every mortal man, woman and child hears it, so none can claim ignorance when the time of judgement is upon them."

"I am honoured, my lord."

The dark god turned to the Elder dragoness. "Klosumah—"

"Alduin, my overlord, allow me to join in this purging," she pleaded. Her bloodthirst was starkly apparent. "Alduin, my overlord, I would not disappoint you."

"I know you wouldn't, my sister," he answered, "which is why I have other purposes for you to fulfill. I would have you travel to the black fens in the south. The low-scales' allegiance has remained unquestioned since the dawn of my reign." The World-Eater's tail scarred the floor in a broad sweeping arc behind it; every inch of it was adorned in ebony thorns. "You will demand tribute from them also. I will secure our servants' loyalties thrice over, while so many resistors to my dominion run rampant throughout my empire." Fury simmered gently under his last few words.

"My lord." The Redguard Cirroc stepped briskly forward, speaking rapidly. "The Merigard will be vanquished. Progress has been made, I swear it. I will send word; tributes shall be demanded once again of the strongholds—"

"Be silent, outspoken." Ausnahyol silenced the Dragonlord with a cutting snarl. "Speak only when spoken to in the presence of our overlord—and even then, speak promises you are able to keep." Patterned in all colours of fire, and streaked with black to divide them, he looked a most impressive sight, certainly more so than Cirroc, who responded angrily.

"You doubt my ability?"

"None here doubt your ability," the Red dragon hissed. "Ausnahyol has merely reminded you of your place, as you should remember. Both brother and Vylornar have proven their ability, and also prove that they are able to demonstrate the appropriate courtesies demanded of one while in service and presence to the first son of Akatosh."

Cirroc was still for a moment. Then, very slowly, he turned to the World-Eater and bowed low. "I will have this done," he murmured. "Hammerfell will be yours again."

"Hammerfell is already mine," Alduin stated. His scarlet stare remained unwavering. "I will not have it suffer much more of this insult of an infestation that is Merigard. They wish to taste defeat again; then so be it." He turned to the rest of those gathered before him. "I will not stop them if that is their wish, to die broken and bleeding at our feet, to have their spirit crushed from their bones once again. They know the penalty of defying me. In life or death, they shall not escape my wrath."

His attention returned to the Elder dragoness. "When your task is done, you will then fly to the west, and join Venriikkest in the hunt for the bestial shadow-dwellers. Your thirst will be satisfied in more useful manners. Punishing egg thieves should be suitable enough, I trust?"

"Yes, my lord Alduin." Klosumah's eyes glittered with glee. "Those that dare to tamper with our new generations will pay for their insolence a thousand times over."

The black dragon looked upon the red. "And you shall assure and deliver proof of the cleansing, Odahviing?"

"They are flesh. They are feed." The scarlet creature snarled. "They too will burn."

The World-Eater seemed satisfied. "We will continue." He now turned to another of the dragons, the cobalt-scaled, copper-horned creature. "Vulqostrun. I trust you have good news to tell me in the east."

 _The east…Morrowind…the cinder lands._ Viper stared at the named dragon with new eyes. _Could it be a Storm Dragon? If it is from Morrowind, it must be; they only breed in the ashen province._ The cobalt creature stepped forward into the glow of the silver flame. It was of a size with the Ancients, although Ausnahyol, who was different, remained the larger. Nonetheless the other dragons shrank back as they'd done when Alduin had revealed himself; in respect or fear, or both, Viper couldn't be sure.

"Our females prove fertile," Vulqostrun responded. "Across this last decade, two hundred eggs are reported to have hatched." An agitated murmur swept through his gathered brethren. "One was forbidden, and both it and its mother were suitably punished. Ten wyrms have approached me, imploring to prove themselves to you. They have been tried and tested. Their Voices are strong and will grow stronger, and would serve us well."

"Ten young Storms," the World-Eater considered. Then he asked the nameless Dunmer Dragonlord, "and what tributes have the mortals made?"

"Two thousand five hundred soldiers, my lord, and there is no trouble from any of the cities. The Redoran Torch lingers in their long memories. Clanships and family remains their priority and their concern," the Dark Elf smiled, "and they would not dare risk open rebellion with the lesson learned of the Great House in mind."

The god blinked. "You see no need of a second cleansing of the east, then?"

"No, my lord, although another tribute will ensure this."

"Have the families of influence surrender their current heirs. That will be their offering."

"It shall be done. _Alduin thuri_." The Dragonlord stepped back.

"Vulqostrun, bring the wyrms to me. I will test their Voices for myself." The Storm Dragon nodded and also withdrew. "Iizmahgol, you shall speak next. You fulfilled the task I set you?"

"Indeed." The Frost Dragon stepped forth. "These past thirty years I have watched over the frigid island north of the land of ashes. I have monitored the production of our brethren that reside there natively, and have ensured that the extension of the Daedra's influence remains extinct there. So long as Hermaeus Mora remains unable to extend to his vassals in this realm, there is certainly no hope of a second of what happened there all those decades ago. Nonetheless the Serpentines cling to the idea of a return of their former master. Still they refuse to join us." An angry hiss thrummed through the gathered dragons. The Dragonlords shook their heads.

The World-Eater's scarlet eyes glittered angrily, but he spoke softly. "Sahrotaar?"

"He remains elusive." Iizmahgol looked more irritated than upset. "His brethren are zealots and fools. He is wiser than they; he has not told anyone where he has truly gone. He fed far tales to his kin that were extracted, and proved pointless. We searched the lands they claimed he had gone, and there was no sign that he was ever there."

"My soldiers have also been searching," said the Dunmeri Dragonlord, "and while they have found nothing of the fugitive Sahrotaar, we have made certain to destroy the last testaments to Hermaeus Mora, until none will find a trace that the Daedra's minions and hellspawn ever were to be found upon the island."

Iizmahgol looked hard upon him. "I had not finished, Sirrien."

Abashed, the Dragonlord lowered his eyes. "My deepest apologies, my lord."

The Frost Dragon snorted and spoke once more to the circle. "We have, however, learned that a Serpentine has left Solstheim. Mine wild brothers have spoken that they have seen her circling over the black seas, feeding, and then returning to the mainland, to Skyrim. She has made a lair for herself somewhere in the lonehold, I am sure of it."

"What is the significance of this?" asked Dragonlord Lucifer.

"I have watched the Serpentines for thirty years," Iizmahgol answered, "and not once have I ever seen them drift from their territories. This female must have had a reason to leave her ilk behind, and to expose herself so brazenly in the very land where our lord Alduin's power was born. Her behaviour has caused us to wonder; personally, I suspect she us up to as much treachery as Sahrotaar—or she knows something that we do not, and she does not wish us to know. She has attempted to remove herself from public attention. That is not our natural way." More muttering, as the dragons looked among themselves and softly agreed.

"You have not located her?" asked Odahviing.

"No, brother. We have reason to suspect she has made a lair of herself in the lonehold. My wild brothers search relentlessly for her lair. She has not been seen over the sea for some time."

Klosumah's breath rattled. "Mothers withdraw."

"My thoughts also, my sister," Iizmahgol mused. "Her offspring is forbidden, as her actions are peculiar. I am certain."

"Cadmir could offer assistance," said Ollos.

Iizmahgol's fangs bared in a horrendous grimace. "I would not be so ungracious as to extend this extra chore upon the necromancer. After all, I understand that he is still searching for something he has…misplaced. This makes three he has misplaced now, doesn't it? My, my, what are these so-called Lords coming to when they lose their flesh toys to the sweet north winds?"

Viper grinned, madly pleased with herself. _If only Nevada were here to hear this._ Seeing Ollos bristle with his rage barely withheld gave her a great deal of satisfaction. He glared so heatedly upon the Frost it was a wonder the dragon didn't melt. "It will not be long before the little slut will show herself again in some form, and when she does then nothing and no-one will hide her. All of Skyrim will hear her screams and know what it is to tempt a Dragonlord's wrath!"

Wrapped in the comfort of darkness, Viper smiled to the threats. She felt no more fear.

"Or perhaps she will serve only to tempt _you_ again, my lord," smiled his kinsman Sirrien, as mocking as the Frost. "I understand that the dragon was enraptured by the snake, and desired her so much he gave away his pretty stone. You love your women far too much, Ollos. Hasn't the fates already hinted it will be your undoing, eldest of us all?" He sneered the title. Ollos's eyes burned so bright Viper could see the fire dancing in them from afar.

"Watch your tongue, my bold little Brother," he snarled, "or you may find yourself suffering the same fate that awaits the whore thief."

"Or is her fate to be welcomed into your bed?" Sirrien inquired. "Will the gift of your bedwarming succeed that of your mark of office? That _would_ be a dreadful fate for me, I must agree."

The dragons were watching with interest, as though mortal conflict was a sport to be enjoyed. Even the World-Eater was silent, his black, black face impossible to discern of expression. The Listener suddenly shuddered, and even Viper felt that the air was growing…colder? Warmer? Angrier? There was something foul and heavy and wicked seeping into the atmosphere around them, something that scorched and filled her with an inescapable sense of…dread.

The Dragonlords were still quarreling. Ollos was the first to finally snap, and yet it seemed almost as soon as the glow of magic appeared in his palms, lightning shocked itself into life in Sirrien's fists, throwing him in a pearly glow and casting his hood-hidden face into clarity. He looked younger than Ollos, clean-shaven, ruby-stared, visibly unscarred—but his skin was so dark it was almost black, and had a shiny quality to it. The dragons snarled with excitement, the Dragonlords stiffened as though they too were preparing to join in what looked like a promising dogfight—

" _Enough._ "

A single whispered word quaked the mountains and shook the subterranean fortress to its deepest roots. Viper felt the floor tremble under her feet, felt the single word resonate painfully through her skull. She clapped her hands over her ears but it did nothing to help. She realized that she was trembling. The Listener lay motionless against the wall. The air was seething.

Viper dared to look again.

The World-Eater took a long, leisurely step backwards, taking with him the gloom that gathered beneath his vast wings. A throne of sorts, crumbled stone, was revealed to have been underneath the god; and upon the throne was a silhouette cast as blackly as his master…or his equal. The silver flame did nothing to define him, not while he sat out of its reach. But now the figure was stirring. He stood. Only silence greeted him, and the sound of his footsteps as he advanced upon the rest of the circle were dourly blatant.

He was a man, or wore the shape of one; Viper knew he was far more than a man, far more than any of the Dragonlords or the creatures or even the World-Eater himself. She whispered the name that all mortals called him, so quietly she could barely hear herself, yet she was terrified that he'd heard. She had no idea what this betrayer was capable of—or she could barely begin to comprehend.

All she knew was what she saw, and she watched the Dragonborn advance into the muted glow of the silver flame to reveal the horrifying face of the man whose skin he wore. The skin was neither white nor grey, but a blend in between, framed by his thick dark hair, but it was his eyes that strangled Viper's breath; his eyes that burned as furiously as a phantom's, eyes that no mortal man could bear. They burned pure white, and wisps of it bled into the air beneath his deep brow. His raiment was demonic, changing too suddenly from bladed barbs to sleek smooth plate, a mixture of stained bone and every metal that existed in Nirn. He could have—he _should have_ been mortal, but he was far more, or something else evil, corrupt, terrible.

The World-Eater stood taller than his prophesied bane, yet it was the Dragonborn that seemed the most daunting; his presence captured all attention. Even the dragons looked afraid. Klosumah, the feral sand-coloured Elder, pointedly avoided his eyes. The Dragonlords, however, quietly and wordlessly resumed their former places and stared rigidly into the silver-flamed brazier.

Perfect stillness lasted a little longer. Then, just above a whisper, the Dragonborn spoke.

"In the time of the Dragon Wars, Priests worshipped us as gods. They commanded countless armies of men and wreaked havoc across the mortal lands, all in the name of the first son of Akatosh, most akin to the dragon's instinct to dominate." He paused. "With Alduin's return, the dragons rose again from the earth's cold slumber. I saw the nature of the world, and joined in the purge of corruption from the festering wound that is Tamriel. Not all mortals might have to suffer the consequences of a poisoned land. They could swear fealty to restore to the dragons their birthright of domination, and live their short lives furthering the dream of a pure land purged of strife. To preside over them, I chose from among them the Lords; mortals that had proven themselves worthy of the responsibility. They stand in place of the Priests, conscious enforcers of our sovereignty. Those that had succeeded in earning my trust."

The Dragonlords were shifting. They seemed uncomfortable.

Still the Dread spoke, softly, tonelessly. "I gifted each and one of my Lords a token of my esteem; a crystal imbued with the very rending power that first proved Alduin's bane. Dragons will serve as wingsteeds to watch over them, and to teach them humility, to further the fury in them for domination. The Dragonlords were feared, respected individuals that spoke and acted with the wrath of the very beings they served. They carried favour and ability unlike any other."

His voice never changed, but the air suddenly grew terribly cold. "Thirty years I have been absent of Skyrim. Most of those years I have been absent from Tamriel. I return home to discover that the purified lands I left behind have become tainted once again. Dissent seeps like blood across the provinces. There is no authority, no discipline, among the people we rule. Rebellion ensues across the continent. Order has dissolved into neglect and from neglect rises chaos, the same chaos we once banished. I did not expect to see it again so soon…or to be greeted with the disappointment of learning what has become of the once proud Lords. Those that act in my name, in my place, with my favour."

He was angry, Viper realized. He was furious. Beyond fury. The Dragonlords were shaking.

"Tamriel was yours, gentlemen," the Dragonborn breathed. "Yours as much as Alduin's, as his brethren's, and what have you done? You have maltreated your power and advantaged yourselves upon my blessing. You have grown soft and slow in your decadence. Rebellions you allow to run unchecked through your lands. Creatures from under the earth even dare to strike against the princes of the sky. You once proved yourselves worthy of my esteem. My esteem is no longer equal to the worth you have proved to me in my absence. It seems you have forgotten the gift you received from me, my Lords. It binds. It rends. Dragons it grounds.

"Mortality, it crushes."

The pendants glowed bright, deep indigo, and the Dragonlords crumpled gasping as though their trinkets weighed the mountains above. The dragons recoiled with a terrified hiss, and the silver fire shivered in response to their sharp exhales and stirring wings. The Lords writhed but could not stand or speak. They were being strangled by their own jewels. The Dragonborn watched their desperate suffering quite impassively.

Vylornar and Ollos stood quite still.

The Dread had not forgotten them. "It seems almost fitting," he observed calmly, "that the remainder of the first five maintain their dignity, while the weaker spawn grovel." He now turned to them. Vylornar and Ollos stood perfectly still, holding their master's bright stare. "Ausnahyol remains a willing brother to you, my friend?" he inquired of the Altmer.

Vylornar dipped his head. "He and I…we serve each other well."

"You served him well indeed, Vylornar. You give him a great deal of trust by refusing to wear the mark of my esteem."

"My lord, I had hoped that my actions in your name would speak your esteem for me on their own. I need no badge to flaunt what I have earned, and pray I continue to earn." Vylornar inclined his head. "Should Ausnahyol feel the debt is paid, I will not stop him, nor harbour any form of regret in its weakest or bitterest. My debt to you, my lord, shall never be repaid in its fullest while I live to serve."

The Dragonborn nodded once. "Wise words. I chose well in you."

"Your praise brings me pride, Joorpaalrah. I thank you."

"As for you, Ollos, third and living eldest…"

Ollos made a noise as if to speak, but hushed himself quickly. His master had not finished talking.

"I understand my token to you has been…misplaced."

"It speaks nothing of my regard to you, my master." Ollos took a knee—was he trembling with fear? Did this vile demon in Dunmer skin even know fear anymore? Nonetheless, Viper found his shaking humility curious to behold. "You raised me up to taste true power in its purest form. The pendant was stolen from me, from my very throat…and I will reclaim it from the bitch that stole it."

"A woman," the Dread observed. "I understand you have a fancy for mortal women. It was harmless, rather, until now. Now you have exposed your weakness, and it will be your weakness until your death, and with the loss of your pendant it makes a rather plain statement; there is a flaw in you. You are flawed, my friend. Flawed with the desire you hold dear to you." Ollos said nothing, and didn't move. "You are best known for finding the flaws in all men, and through them extracting all that you need know about anything that is to be known." The white-eyed betrayer tilted Ollos's eyes to him, so the kneeling elf looked up to his once-human overlord. "Elves pride themselves upon perfection. Men find perfection in imperfection. You proved to me while bearing the stone that you are more man than elf. Now without it you are reminded what you really are. I find it a fitting punishment that you were reminded of your flaw when the thief removed it from your person. Now you will never let it weaken you again, or the shame will kill you."

"Yes. That is so." Ollos climbed to his feet. "I will not fail you again, my lord."

"Prove it." The Dragonborn was frigid as he spoke. "You lost the stone you earned. Now you must earn it back. The thief came and she went; no ordinary creature was she to steal from you, Ollos. She was not alone."

Ollos's scarlet eyes glittered. "She mentioned an organization as she gloated."

The satisfaction formerly circling in Viper's heart vanished instantly.

"An organization." A thin smile lit the Dragonborn's lips. "It so happens I knew once of an organization, in the days when I still followed the treacherous course of destiny. In the bowels of Riften they presided. I came to know of them while pursuing a cornered rat. I did not expect a single purge to clean the surface of the world of all thieves—their art is as old as the world—but the Guild is yet to die. They have grown stronger in my absence. More daring. More cunning. Ollos, you are not the first to have endured the humiliation of Guild hands, are you?"

"No, my lord. Cirroc…"

There was a sudden gasp. Dragonlord Cirroc had been released from his pendant's magic.

The Dragonborn proceeded quietly to him. "This is true, little man?"

"Y-yes, my lord." Cirroc almost whimpered. Klosumah made a disgusted noise behind him.

"And what did they take from you?"

Cirroc slowly climbed onto his knees, keeping his eyes low. "A paragon, my lord."

Viper's ears pricked. She remembered this job; she'd been only an apprentice at the time, but she remembered it because of the way the Guild had celebrated their victory over a Dragonlord. She'd glimpsed it during those celebrations; a shining egg-shaped crystal the size of a horse's head, its girth bound in black rune-engraved metal, its tips gleaming a brilliant blue. It was imbued with the magic of the ancient Frost Giants, she'd been told. She'd asked Cenrin who it'd been for; he answered they'd been contracted by a woman who called herself the Cairn Child. The paragon had been left outside an old Dwemer ruin nearby early that morning. Within the hour it was gone, and in its place rested a single golden dragon scale. Cenrin said it was proof that the contractor had collected her specimen.

"A paragon," the Dragonborn repeated thoughtfully. He looked between Cirroc and Ollos. "I wonder, what could the Thieves Guild need with first a paragon, and then a dragonjewel?" Then his eyes rested firmly on Ollos. "That, my friend, is what I would like to know."

Ollos nodded. "Yes, my lord."

"I would also like to know about the mysterious deaths that have been occurring within the stonehold's borders," said the Dread. He was angry again. "The first enemy of dragons I dealt with long ago. Now the dragons are dying most mysteriously in the very territory that served the first enemy as their final refuge. Am I right to suspect?"

Did he expect an answer? None were offered.

"Ollos, you will also lead an investigation over the raided lairs. Give me answers."

Ollos dipped his head. None were better at providing answers.

"As for the Guild…" The Dragonborn now turned to Vylornar. "Your new orders, my friend; cleanse Riften. Have your forces find a way into what is left of the Ratways, the sewer complex beneath the city. Take citizens off the streets and interrogate them before dragoneye if finding the Guild proves difficult, although I imagine it should not. Lay siege to the city and to the Guild in particular; ensure they are starved of supplies and contacts to keep their coin from rolling in. Purge a man, woman or child every day until the thief surrenders herself. Do this for the first ten days. Then perform the same on the Guild. It ends when she gives herself up. On the day she does, destroy all remaining members of the Thieves Guild. Let them stand as a warning to any that dare to disrupt the order of our cause."

Viper felt sick. She watched Vylornar nod courteously, heard Ausnahyol rumble in anticipation, and then she was alone with the ringing in her head. How did the Dread know of the Ratways? Had he once been a part of the Guild? How…? She had no answers, but the Dread spoke true. Bare fragments of the Ratways had survived the firestorm above, but they would eventually lead into the Cistern, it was the core of the former maze and it hadn't been affected by the initial destruction of Skyrim. The Guild would eventually be found. Vylornar had ended every last man, woman and child associated with Great House Redoran a hundred years ago—the Thieves Guild would be no different to him. She knew that he would succeed in completing the Dragonborn's orders and dread knotted her stomach once again.

 _I did this, didn't I?_ She saw the Guild's faces floating through her mind, brothers and sisters all in the art of larceny. Her heart wrenched in angry sorrow. _I am the cause of all this—I took the bloody stone, I showed my face to Ollos…I escaped him, shamed him, and his wrath will turn elsewhere because of it.…if I hadn't been so foolish, so proud as to openly display myself before a favoured of the Dragonborn himself…I should have kept to the shadows._

But that wasn't right, she realized suddenly. She gazed into the darkness and something else occurred to her. _Cenrin. Cenrin has done this, not me. He accepted the contract. He must have known the significance of the pendant for him to accept the task and then to bequeath it onto me. He sold me to prevent me returning to the Guild, to ensure that all loose ends were tied away, to ensure that the Guild would remain safe and sheltered from the Dragonlord's wrath he knew would follow. A sacrifice to ensure that he and the rest survived._

 _Did Janquil know? Did any of them know?_

 _But it doesn't matter—Vylornar will come for them. He will destroy them all, whether I give myself up or not._ Yet presented with this revelation, she realized it was hardly fair; her life for all of theirs, the Guild that had taken her in and housed her and equipped her with the tools to live out an occupation out of sight of the dragons. Cenrin should only have to suffer, but all would suffer with him. Viper trembled. _I cannot let that happen…somehow, I cannot let that happen! I know those faces that would perish for me…I must not let this happen!_

But how to draw them away? How to distract them? How to present a bigger threat than the Guild to save those innocent of her and Cenrin's crimes? She stared helplessly into the darkness surrounding her…and then, very slowly, almost cautiously, the conclusion came to her.

The Dread penetrated her blackening thoughts. "Zoornahldir should be here."

"He is away in the east of Skyrim, my lord," said Vylornar. "The Raiders are on the move."

"Hasn't he dealt with those barbarians yet?" inquired Lucifer; all the Dragonlords had regained their feet. The Dragonborn had released all from the snare of his esteem.

"The Nords prove irksomely elusive," Vylornar responded. "However, he is close, and hot on their trail. He has discovered the remains of their outpost in the mountains, a scarce six miles from Skuldafn; he believes the young bear is moving his forces towards the greenwood. He is cornering himself; the warden of the south will send his men to cut them off, and the dragons will sweep them off the face of the tundra. It will all be over very soon."

"I've heard that said often," observed Sirrien, "so why hasn't it ended? This has been going on for months."

"Because," said the Dread, "Kaarn Stormbear is less a fool you."

The Dunmer Dragonlord seemed startled. "M-my lord?"

"The young bear has cast a splendid image of himself as an ignorant, brash and foolish child playing at war, has he not?" Nodded heads, including those of dragons. "Does it not strike you as unusual that he has done nothing to defend himself against these accusations laid against him, even by his own countrymen? There was no hot-blooded retaliation for the traitor's purge of his uncle, nothing that would suggest any of the things that is told about him."

"He has done nothing but move his forces back and forth across the east," said Ollos.

"And yet Zoornahldir, who could fly the tundra's length in a day, has had such trouble searching for any signs of an army?" the Dread demanded. Now the response was stillness. They were listening closely. "Somehow the so-called boy survives to this day," he continued coolly, "and has moved his army 'back and forth across the east', avoiding detection and open conflict. The dragons command the skies and see miles with their sharp eyes. There is one place that they cannot see."

Ausnahyol's snarl rattled sharply in his throat. "Under the earth."

"You have been played for a fool, all of you," the Dragonborn concluded coldly. "You believe the rumours they speak of him. You have never stopped to consider that the boy could outwit a dragon. Your pride and your arrogance blinds you to all possibilities and as such, he has succeeded against you. If they lack strength to challenge us in the open, they will resort to wisdom; it is only the way of the world, the conception of cunning that keeps even the lowliest of beasts alive."

"They'd never do it," argued Cirroc. "The Nord race values honour too much to cling to the shadows."

"The Redguards value freedom too much to serve the dragon cause so willingly," the Dragonborn responded. Cirroc looked away. "You and Borissean saw the truth of what is to become of this world," he went on quietly. "The rest of your people refuse to. What is spoken about a race may not be so, in unusual circumstances. The Merigard and the Raiders may find themselves allies to unite themselves against us; ensure that this never happens. Keep them separated. Anything that may be used to strengthen either rebellion, destroy or bring to me."

Dragonlord Cirroc nodded and bowed his head.

The Dread turned to Sirrien. "Kaarn Stormbear I would have destroyed before the year is out. Bring these orders to Zoornahldir; turn his attention from easthold settlements to thoroughly exploring the land. Have his forces map the underground. Learn every inch of the easthold, down to the placement of the last pebble. The Raiders possess advantage because of their foreknowledge of the land they claim their birthright. Remove this advantage, and they too will bend to the dragon's might."

Viper wondered if any of them knew that Kaarn possessed Ollos's lost pendant. She also wondered if he knew how to use it. If he did, he possessed a power that the dragons deeply feared—she'd seen how they recoiled as the Dragonlords plunged to the floor—and so held some advantage still over his enemies, even if he were found. Tamriel seethed with resistance, in all its many forms…how long would any of them last?

"Return to your places," the World-Eater rumbled. "Honour Joorpaalrah. Honour me."

Immortal and mortal bowed briefly. " _Alduin thuri_ ," they whispered, and departed. Some, like Iizmahgol and Odahviing, took wing at once. Others reluctantly held back while respective Lords mounted them. Viper glimpsed the disgust upon Klosumah's face as Cirroc clambered behind her horns, and took off swiftly. The Dunmer Sirrien positioned himself upon Vulqostrun the Storm Dragon, the Breton Lucifer upon the hideously scarred Venriikkest, and then both were away. Vylornar turned to Ausnahyol but the dragon recoiled briefly. Vylornar paused. "The freeze storm has strengthened," the creature whispered, almost too softly for Viper to hear. "It is dangerous for us to fly." Vylornar nodded and, with Ollos, made his way through a side passage, withdrawing into the fortress.

Viper watched them go, an odd hunger simmering in her veins. Fortune had presented the opportunity she'd hoped for. She tugged the Listener's shoulder. "We need to go."

"No." The Listener stirred, after so long stationary. "Wait a moment."

The Dragonborn and the World-Eater, prophesied enemies and betrayer brothers, now stood alone in the chamber. The silver flame glowed silently between them. "There is no more time, Alduin," the Dread uttered. "The land revolts. Our supremacy is questioned. You promised me we would render an age of peace, obedience and glory like our kin had never seen. This is chaos."

"Chaos veiled still, and can still be ended before it begins," the god defended. "They are mortals; weak, born to be ruled. The generation is corrupt, but our reign was glorious in the birth of our new age."

"That glory is forgotten now," the Dragonborn retorted, and the very air seemed to warp around his furious words. "We are disgraced. The dragons gorge themselves on this supremacy. They are fools, all of them. They take what is granted to them and the mortal races are quick to notice. This has become a false domination. We ourselves have become flawed."

The World-Eater growled, a low, furious sound. "Be careful, Joorpaalrah," he warned.

"You may be ancient," the Dragonborn continued, unperturbed, "but our domination is not. A hundred years is a long time to humans, even the elves, although their memories turn bitter with time. It was why they rose against us—against _you_ , firstborn." There was a slight challenge there, Viper thought. "My absence was not for naught. The lost continents furthered my pursuits."

"So you are ready, then?" Alduin inquired.

The Dread nodded once. "The First will serve once more, to cleanse the final threats. When they are dissolved, _then_ we will rule and preside over the crawling masses with discipline and power, the way dragonkind was meant to."

"Very well." The World-Eater hissed, and the silver flame shivered. "So we are ready to begin the sundering of souls. Time bends to you as it does to me. You are ready to begin, and so begin when you will. However…" He seemed almost to sneer. "…I trust you have amended your…mistake?"

"Yes, _my lord_." The Dread spoke icily. " _Krentuld_ is sacked, its citizens devoured."

The dark god chuckled. "You made an interesting decision, selecting beasts to perform in place of our brethren."

"It would seem strange to have our soldiers vanquish a lawful settlement. Besides, wolves are savage and care for nothing but blood. They hunted _Krentuld_ down to the last child. As far as I am concerned, it is resolved, and we will never speak of it again."

Burning white eyes stared hard into the blazing red, and it was the World-Eater that blinked first.

"There is work to be done, Joorpaalrah," he growled. "The First await awakening."

The silver flame went out, but the darkness seethed with evil energy. Viper recoiled in fear. She heard a tremendous roar, like a flood of storm wind—and then it was gone, her ears left ringing. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light, she knew that the meeting place below was empty.

"Now it is our turn to depart, child," the Listener breathed. Viper felt a hand rest imploringly upon her shoulder, drawing her into the darkness. She followed obediently, at first.

But she was reminded of the hunger, and she had not forgotten the opportunity, or the reason. Her fingertips flexed. She was conscious of the array of poison phials tucked into the pouches on her person, and the deathly resin upon her lips.

Darkness lay ahead, and darkness lay behind.

And the serpent turned back to play with fire.

 **d|b**


	49. XXXXVIII - The Eldest Child

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

Dawn could not be far off. Somehow the nights already felt colder and Hearthfire was barely begun; Nurr was shivering fiercely under his cloak and not for the first time that hour he cursed whatever smart-arsed god commanded temperature. Why couldn't nights be as warm as the day? Why couldn't it just never get hot or cold, but just stay at a temperature everyone was friends with?

Ah well, he was in the easthold now, at least. The journey would hopefully end soon.

He didn't know where exactly to make contact with these bloody Raiders, but he sternly hoped it wasn't much further than wherever he was now. One wearying three-day journey through the greenwood later, and he still considered himself undiscovered by anyone he didn't want to be seen with. Even the dragons hadn't given him much attention, although sleeping by day and travelling by night had probably been the smartest way to go about it even in the forest. Maybe the Bloods were deep sleepers.

Through the mountain pass, up through a wisp of the autumnal forest, over the ridge and down into the east. He glimpsed the paling horizons as he rose and descended the ridge, and presumed dawn was an hour or so off. The vast volcanic stretches were unveiled to his eyes, and steam wafted drowsily into the still early morning. The odd-coloured waters, tainted interesting shades by sulphur, proved rather foul to drink and, quite frankly, stank. He and his weary horse replenished their thirsts from a pool beneath a waterfall instead, not far from the melted, blackened and overgrown remains of what once must have been a settlement. He racked his brains but for the life of him couldn't remember the name. He was sure it must have been a crossing of some sort, it was surrounded by water, and linked to the road by the ruined remains of a bridge.

His armour might protect him from the horrors he hunted, but did nothing to insulate him. It worked to keep heat out, not in. Nurr was in a rather irritable mood as he heartlessly trotted down the road, which wound its way drunkenly north. It was very overgrown, and scrubby pines clustered over the gutters, their roots upsetting the cobbles. Sparse bushes spilled over and scratched experimentally at the horse's flanks as it carried him past. A good place for an ambush, Nurr admitted, particularly at low light. He kept all his senses alert, while thinking it might be a good thing if he were ambushed by the men he'd been sent to assist.

No, he wouldn't say he was anticipating them anymore. No excitement, no contemplation; he was far too annoyed to be feeling those much more sensible thoughts. He'd been travelling for days, he'd lost count of how many, certainly for a long time; he just wanted out of the saddle, to do whatever needed to be done with these bandit Nords and then go home and forget the whole affair ever happened. Travelling brought back memories he'd rather forget.

Speaking of which, he recalled he still had a few drops of his ale left. He busied himself for a moment unfastening the straps on his saddlebags, removed his last precious phial of sanity, and had a hearty swig of the substance that lingered thickly at the bottom. The warm, sour taste spilled over his tongue and he relished it. To hell with ambushes; nothing came between him and his liquid relief.

He drained the bottle without interruption. Then, in a moment of stupidity, he discarded it over his shoulder, where it shattered noisily on the cobbles behind him.

He thought he heard something un-wind-like startle the scrub.

 _Idiot_ , he berated himself, and wondered if he were already drunk. Perhaps he was; he actually contemplated getting down from the saddle and picking up the glass before he (mentally) slapped himself round the head, asked his brain if he wanted to make an even bigger idiot of himself, and returned his thoughts to the road.

Only they didn't quite lock there—they slid back to thoughts of home. Sky Haven was a long way away, its inhabitants even further. Nurr hoped he wasn't forgetting their faces too quickly. He wanted to at least recognize half of them if he ever was liberated from the Stormbear's services. He wondered how Lio was coming along with his apprentice, if Raegim was surviving the Pit of Pain, if Rogghart and Banviel were finally married. Maybe Auril had at last stopped having nightmares about the wyrms, or Jor had frightened one of his students into hysterics again, or if Emilyn was welcoming new recruits. Just for the hell of it, he also wondered if the dragonmen had finally grown a brain and found them. Executing a loyalist of Alduin would have gained them some infamy, given how the soldiers tended to spend their entire immortal lives on the wing furthering the reign of terror. He recalled that the World-Eater and his lackey Dragonborn had come back to Skyrim. He also recalled that he was no longer in Haven, that he was in the open and, frankly, rather alone.

Or not.

He could hear something, and within a moment more see something upon the roadside. He couldn't discern it at first, which was odd, given his eyes were as good at night as they were in the day; then he realized he couldn't immediately tell what it was because it was the last sort of animal he'd have expected to see sitting brazenly upon the roadside. It took flight in a clumsy flurry of shaggy black wings at the disturbance on the road, but it didn't go far. It perched upon a jutting pine branch and preened itself.

 _A raven,_ frowned Nurr. Odd to see one away from a corpse.

Because he was bored silly, he stopped to look at the thing. It came to him that it was the ugliest creature that he'd ever seen. Aged and haggard, its grey-skinned head was bald of feathers, and despite its preening maintained a permanently bedraggled look. Its beak looked too large for its head. Its claws were as gnarled as the branch it perched upon. Its feathers stuck up all over the place, no matter what it did in an attempt to lie it flat. It's old, Nurr told himself, painfully old for a wild creature. He could almost hear it wheezing.

He picked up his bow and nocked an arrow, wondering if it might be better to put the thing out of the misery of its old, lonely age—or maybe to silence it before its loud, raucous screeches gave him away. That had happened once during a lair raid; on the trail of a particularly gluttonous brute, he and his fellows had passed by a scattering of decimated corpses, and the vermin and carrion-eaters were having a feast. Rats and Skeevers scurried away silently enough as they drew near, but the crows and ravens went screaming into the air, and the dragon, which had been sleeping off its meal, promptly woke. Nurr had no mind to have this incident repeat, if his reckless shattering of the bottle hadn't already.

He drew his arm back, the fletching brushing against his cheek and pulling back the rim of his hood, and the bird looked at him.

It didn't stop looking. Nurr soon found that rather uncanny.

Softly clucking to itself, it continued to stare, almost questioningly—or daringly. It fluffed up its feathers and emitted a slightly louder _tchack_.

"No you don't," Nurr whispered.

The bird hopped in place and repeated the sound, a little louder than before.

The bloody thing was taunting him. Nurr hated things that thought for themselves. It showed they were intelligent and more than capable of deliberate provocation. He tensed and drew the arrow fully back as a warning. The old raven was silent, although it continued to look at him. It became quite still.

 _I must be drunk_ , Nurr told himself. It was glaring at him, or at least studying him in severe disapproval.

"Get away with you," he growled at last, lowering his weapons.

The raven took wing. Nurr listened to its ungainly flight recede into non-hearing, although he swore he could hear its chattering laugh lingering faintly in its wake.

 _And something_ not _to tell the rest when—if—I return,_ he decided promptly, and began to replace his arrow in his quiver when something told him that might not be such a wise idea.

He looked ahead with pricked ears; yes, he could definitely hear hoofbeats on the road ahead of him. The gait suggested a walk; a quite leisurely one, even. Someone that could stroll through their land quite comfortably, at least while under cover of darkness. Nurr could also hear muted footsteps through the undergrowth flanking the road on either side of him; a soft chink of mail, a whisper of steel…he was being surrounded. With whiskers tingling, he tasted the air. Man scent smacked him in the mouth, sort of sulphur-tinted.

 _Raiders or overly confident bandits?_

The distant horse came into sight. The rider was accompanied by two footmen, who were clad in a confusing mixture of furs and steel, but carried their swords unsheathed and ready in their hands. The rider himself carried no weapons, although the axe gleaming at his hip didn't look like it would be too much trouble to get out quickly. Recalling the unseen presences now positioned on either side of him, Nurr decided that if he'd walked into an ambush, at least he'd come prepared for one. He amused himself a moment more with observing the rider and his bodyguards approach.

The rider was a Nord, and a wild shaggy-haired barbarian of a Nord at that. Civilization appeared to be a term unknown to this fellow. He looked like he lived in his thick steel raiment. His grey-haired horse was the largest of its ilk Nurr had ever seen; a real Skyrim-bred brute, as grizzled as its master. Nurr wouldn't confess to being daunted, but he couldn't deny he felt…less impressive in comparison, perched on his shaggy travel-worn steed as he was. He straightened slowly in the saddle, ignoring the immediate protesting aches running through his bundled tail, and shrank back into his cloak with his arms tense and waiting. He could fight horseback if he had to.

The Nord rider pulled up a good few yards from Nurr, and for a moment they studied each other. Nurr wondered how well men could see in the dark.

Then the Nord rasped, "Show your face, stranger."

Nurr almost chuckled. The Nord had made no attempt to veil his identity, but that was his choice. "Let's talk before we do anything like that," he returned, vaguely surprised at the huskiness of his voice—then again, he hadn't used his tongue for talking in a few days. "You bandits? Going to rob me?" He brandished a thumb at the shrubs to his right. "Tell your friends to make a bit less noise next time, even a half-drunk traveller could hear the twigs cracking under their boots."

The Nord frowned. Maybe he was puzzling through a suitable response. Nurr waited politely. "Where is it you're heading?" the Nord finally demanded.

"That depends if you're bandits or not," said Nurr. "I'm not going to give away my personal business to a band of oaf robbers."

"You'll tell us whether we're bandits or not," the Nord warned.

"Here's an idea," Nurr began dryly, "why don't we share our names? Then we can have something in common and the start of a long and overall promising friendship." He could tell he was winding the rest of them up, and oddly enough, he rather enjoyed it. It was just like sparring with the ones he'd left behind.

The Nord chortled and unobtrusively slid a hand from the reins to the axe at his side. "Stalbreic," he replied. "Just Stal if you can't wrap your half-drunk tongue 'round it."

"Dark," said Nurr. "Should be simple enough for an oaf road robber." He grinned broadly as one of the horse-flanking footmen started forward impulsively, sword clenched in white-knuckled hands. _Touchy, touchy…some people just don't understand Sky Haven humour._

"So now we're off on equal footing," said Nurr pleasantly, returning his attention to 'Stal'. "What's your business around here, stranger?"

"My question, not yours," Stal growled. He was losing his patience.

"Well, I spoke it last," Nurr defended. "Go on, you first, I'm curious." He heard the bushes around him whisper of the hidden men moving position. A bowstring being set. A soft oath uttered at the very edge of hearing.

Stal looked very irritated. "Nothing wrong with patrolling, is there?"

"Oh, patrolling, is it?" Nurr ascertained, wondering where the hell he was going with this himself. "All right, fair enough. I'm travelling. There you go. Now that we're all friends here, mind letting me continue my purpose? Then you can continue yours. A win for the both of us." Dawn wasn't far off. He could see a pale glow streaking the formerly pitch black sky. The dragons would be waking up soon and then they'd all be dead meat.

"You've travelled into our territory, stranger," said Stal. "Be reasonable. We only want to ascertain if you're a threat to us or not." There was something unspoken there, Nurr sensed. A challenge? No, not quite as obvious as that; but it wasn't nothing. If they were Kaarn's boys, he'd have sent them 'patrolling' to look out for the Blade he'd called for. However, just as easily they could be dragonman plants. Better to be cautious than cold and dead.

"Your territory?" Nurr remarked. "Here I thought all the east of Skyrim belonged to the boy bear—or so the commons like to say. You'd find the dragons have different opinions, and bandits just go ahead and take with no regard who's already staked a claim on a bit of dirt or not—actually, that sounds rather like the dragons as well. You wouldn't be in their employ, would you? Here to stop and waylay poor innocent travellers as they're minding their own business?"

He observed their reactions. Those faces he could see wore deep scowling frowns.

"If you like your tongue, I suggest you stop wagging it," Stal warned. "Might be better if you turned around and went back the way you came, wanderer."

Nurr held up a plated hand in a gesture of peace. "I meant no offense—but I really must be on my way, and the only way to go is forward. I have rather urgent business with someone. Come to think of it, my business must be somewhere around here…" He looked around in a wondering fashion. "You wouldn't happen to have seen any dragons about?"

"You a spy?" one of the footmen asked bluntly.

Nurr rolled his eyes before turning back to him. "Now _really_ ," he snapped, "what a dumb question. Whether I was a spy or wasn't I'd deny that, and if I said 'yes, I am, well guessed sir,' then I'd have to be as thick as you."

The fur-metal-clad rogue started forward fuming; Stal stopped him. "Apologies," Nurr grinned to them, "I'm afraid I've had rather too much to drink." He pictured Emilyn's face if she ever learned of this exchange. He really was drunk; he couldn't recall impersonating Lio half so well. "To certify and to conclude, my merry band of oafs," he went on, "I am no spy; rather, a slayer."

Their faces changed again; realization…and flat disbelief. "Talos help us," the footman cursed.

Stal looked blank briefly. "You're the one Kaarn sent for?"

"Oh yes," said Nurr, abandoning all mirth. He was reminded of the task at hand, why he'd ridden across the flaming province at all… "But I just had to make sure you weren't going to stab me in the back—or, at least, attempt to." He turned in the saddle. "You there, behind the juniper, you and your friends might as well come out now, the game's up and the night's getting old. Now, Stal—yes, long names are such a bloody tangle—you were sent out to await my grand and inspiring arrival, or did you just happen across the unfortunate fellow who was my leader's response?"

The big grey horse across from him snorted. Stal's hairy brow knit even tighter across his weathered face. "We received word from Falkreath a few days ago," he said. "Kaarn's expecting you. Dark." He didn't sound like he believed the name.

"Well, we might as well make progress, then," said Nurr, desperate to get out of the saddle. If he had to endure one more night ride… "Dawn's upon us. Where's your boy king holed up?"

They disapproved of his informality, but what were they expecting, some fanatic with ideals of a liberated Skyrim and a High King restored in the old Nord way? Stal responded courteously enough. "You won't show us your face, so we've got no reason to trust you. You'll come quietly if you really are the Blade."

Nurr nodded, silently.

"Dismount, then."

Nurr heard footsteps behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know that there were Nords with ill intentions creeping up on him. "I'd like nothing better than to get off this damned horse," he growled, "but I have no intention of following you anywhere subdued like a bandit prisoner, faced or faceless."

"You said you'd come quietly," Stal reminded him.

"I'll come quietly," Nurr spat, " _on_ the horse, _quite_ conscious of where I'm being taken. Do you take me for a fool?"

"You could be a spy on the dragonman side. A plant sent in place of the Blade, to attack us from the inside." Stal actually drew his axe. "Very easy for you to be that, particularly with your continued resistance to surrender yourself."

This was turning ugly. "And what idiot wants to surrender himself to a band of clearly dangerous strangers, might I ask?" Nurr demanded, restraining the teeth-gnashing urge to lash his tail. "I am here and I am going to bloody well see where I'm going to end up, or else I'm going to turn around and ride straight back to the stonehold, and I can promise you I won't return." He whipped around. "Put the fucking bag away, you little sot. I'm on your side, aren't I? So stop treating me like the gods-damned enemy or I swear you'll make me one."

The Nord, he was pleased to see, hesitated.

"Now stop wasting my and your time with this ridiculousness, and take me to Kaarn; the sun's rising, haven't you noticed?" Nurr brandished at the sky above. The air was growing lighter. He wondered if they could see he was fully armoured, or if he was exceptionally pissed off. Stal exchanged glances with those around him. Perhaps he noticed.

He didn't put his axe away but he yielded. "Come with us. You'll show yourself to Kaarn if not to us—and you'll prove you're who you say you are," he added somewhat menacingly, as he turned his gargantuan mount around.

Nurr tucked his bow away and followed, suppressing continued frustration as the ambushers emerged and surrounded him guards-and-prisoner style. All their weapons were out, and all looked extremely displeased. So these were what the Raiders, heroes of the people, were like in person. Interesting, and hardly surprising. Since when did anyone live up to the rumours cast about them? Ah well, at least he wasn't as cold as he was anymore. Arguing proved a magnificent method of warming up, or at least forgetting how to shiver.

They left the road behind them within minutes and crossed a section of the steaming plateau. Nurr did not like being so exposed in the brightening day. Briefly he wondered if these Raiders were actually dragonman plants and they were leading him off to be executed somewhere in the fathomless wilderness. The likelihood of this lessened with every step. Dragonmen wouldn't bother taking him this deeply into the easthold tundra. He continually scented the wind, which blew in his face, and detected no hint of deceit or treachery. The Nords seemed genuine enough; he'd heard one of them utter 'Talos' some time ago. All clad in rough furs and well-worn steel, they lived a hard life fighting for their home—although personally, as Nurr was greeted with the sight of dizzyingly bright stinking pools and blistered ruptures hissing steam stretching in every direction, he couldn't see the point of fighting for a land like this. Sentimentality, perhaps; the land itself looked worthless for farming, settling, cultivating in any way…

Where trees grew, they grew sparse and strained, alone or in very small copses, except for something that looked like a small wood, which Nurr found out they were heading straight for. That looked hardly large enough to conceal a freedom-fighting army. There was no smoke rising from amid the branches. There seemed no sign at life at all within the knot of peeling trunks, but Stal wasn't leading them anywhere else. Eventually curiosity got the better of him. "Didn't take Kaarn for a tree hugger."

"You'll see where he's 'holed up' soon enough, Dark." Stal glanced back. He was smirking just a little.

As they slipped under the cool black shadows of the pines, Stal inquired, "You ever heard that our crusade is young but our memories old?"

"Something along those lines, sure," Nurr grunted. "Why?"

"There are older things than memory. Older things than men, than elves, than even the dragons. Older _living_ things, I might say, if you'd consider memory something alive." Stal nodded idly to the trees around them. "There's nothing we don't know about our proud fatherland, over or under the surface. Dismount here, Dark."

He swung off his horse as he spoke. The Nord was large. Very large. Even among his own. Perhaps it was just the shagginess of the fur under his thick steel armour. Nurr still felt rather small as he half-reluctantly, half-eagerly, came to stand on his own two feet with a snarled warning at his guards to not even try. He thought he glimpsed the sack slide out of sight for good.

They were gathered outside a broad-mouthed cave, burrowed deep into a stone-skinned bank. There seemed nothing remarkable about it, although Nurr was quite aware of the intention for misleading appearances. "Your base is situated underground, eh?" he remarked. "You monitor all your proceedings from underground. No wonder the dragons haven't found you yet. I did hear something about you lot heading towards the greenwood, though."

"Some advice, Dark," Stal rumbled, "don't believe every rumour you hear." He stood waiting with the reins of his horse in hand. Nurr got the impression and, leading his own while trying not to let his acquired stiffness show, was the first to step into the cave, and the surface world disappeared behind him.

He faced a tunnel not unlike the one leading into Sky Haven. Nurr paused, trying to scent where it led. The stench of man was quite strong. People used this passage often, people who also stank of sulphur. He couldn't tell how far it went down, but the ground sloped unhurriedly under his feet. Heavy plodding footsteps alerted him that Stal and his dragon of a horse had appeared behind them. The big Nord chuckled. "Scared of the underground, little slayer?"

"You mistake me," Nurr muttered, beginning his descent. "I'm quite used to tunnels."

"I believe you. Your horse ain't making a fuss."

"Beasts of burden rarely do."

"I disagree. Ours were shrieking like banshees when we dragged them down." Stal slapped his horse's solid neck. "Old veterans like mine just put up with it but the wilder younger ones…but they have to learn eventually. It's the one place dragons never think to look, and don't dare to."

The tunnel didn't feel as long as Sky Haven's—within moments Nurr thought he saw the end of it. He also spotted a sentry standing guard. Stal promptly took the lead, and the sight of him prompted the sentry to step back and shout something into the cave beyond. Only when Nurr passed through the doorway and into the main interior, did he see it was no cave.

He stood in a subterranean landscape the size of a city, with skies of stone and a bed of freshwater rills, rivers and streams. On banks and ledges and small cliffs, green grass grew comfortably, while from saplings to full-fledged evergreen trees grew tall. There were paddocks and copses and soft lush earth that had been turned into small cereal fields, waterfalls tumbling from cliffs descending from the ceiling, openings in said ceiling that allowed light into the chamber below, and—most spectacular of all—a giant tree, the biggest Nurr had ever seen in his life, a sentinel without equal overlooking the small paradise in the shadow of its scarlet canopies. It stood directly beneath one of the ceiling openings, and even though night lasted outside, pale light washed through its boughs and threw all under it into deepest blue shadow.

Nurr stood gaping. Stal sensed his amazement. "The Eldergleam, we call her," he said, nodding to the huge tree. "This her sanctuary, an ageless shred of Skyrim that has never once known the agony that pervades the surface world. We—our ancestors, I mean—have come here often, but never lingered for long. It would be disrespectful to overstay our welcome of Kynareth's hospitality."

The Raiders had made themselves comfortable nonetheless. Tents were erected in all corners, on every bit of flat and stable ground. Everywhere Nurr heard life. Metal being hammered, steel being sharpened, the whickering of horses and the rattling of harness and gear; an endless droning slur of voices, a mixture of men and women, and even children. Midnight-blue banners emblazoned with a roaring bear outlined in fierce gold stood to be seen wherever the head turned. Smoke mingled with the light beams descending from the ceiling. There were people everywhere. A city's worth of people. Briefly Nurr was overwhelmed.

Until he heard Stal, somewhere at the edge of hearing. "You coming, Dark? Kaarn'd like to meet the world's best dragonslayer."

Maybe some of the many people around or above them heard; Nurr felt eyes on him as he followed Stal into the underground green. Steep banks rose on either side of the path, so he was walled by earth as he moved forward, and the bystanders looked at him from above, and whispered to each other when they thought he was out of earshot. Nurr didn't feel quite comfortable to unwind his tail yet.

He noticed the guards; Nords of Old were soon everywhere, standing like very unsightly trees in various watching posts. Their eyes, hidden under their assortment of helms, also followed Nurr's progress into the cavern. They were alert, he granted, and deeply mistrustful, which was wise. Pursuing rough man-made tracks and slightly precarious wooden-slat bridges spanning rocky streams, eventually Nurr was led to a small corral where several large horses were tethered. It was where he and Stal left their travel-weary animals before continuing towards the enormous tree.

Only they never quite got that far. Nurr had barely turned his back on the horses when he became aware of a small party of men making their way down the ascending path to the Eldergleam. Heading them was a younger man, dressed as ruggedly as the rest of them, but with a regal air about him Nurr couldn't mistake. _So this is Kaarn Stormbear,_ he mused, watching the Raider chieftain advance. He was barely older than Marcel, although his dark eyes carried the weary responsibility of much older men.

"You're the man Emilyn sent for me?" he asked.

Nurr was relieved. _No bloody formalities, no screwing our heads over…straight to the chase. It's not a complete waste of time._ "Aye, more or less," he replied. The lad had the nerve to name the Blades' Grandmaster aloud, but that wasn't a bad thing. "Kaarn Stormbear…" He looked him up and down again. Stern, strong, clearly not stupid… "I imagined you taller."

And no sense of humour.

"Calls himself Dark," Stal said. "He wouldn't show us his face or bend to our way of doing things." He looked unkindly at Nurr. "Most of the men think he's a spy, replacing the Blade you sent for."

"He'll have a chance to prove his worth soon enough, if he really is who he says he is," Kaarn responded evenly. "Emilyn names you her best of the Order," he went on, his cold blue stare returning to Nurr. "A slayer unlike any other. You'll show me your face and give me your name with your eyes meeting mine, and then I'll decide if you're a dragon bane or dragon man."

"She's not lying," said Nurr, casting back his hood. "I _am_ a slayer unlike any other."

He'd anticipated the reaction to his appearance revealed, and wasn't disappointed. Almost all the Nords recoiled, and bystanders witnessing the momentous occasion whispered their shock. "A Khajiit?" "A _cat?_ " "But aren't they dead?" "Is this a joke?" Even Kaarn's eyes went round, though he didn't make a sound. A leader had to remain composed even in the face of surprise, and the lad passed the test well enough. Nurr let them have a good long stare at him before he turned around and tetchily informed the questioners, " _Yes_ , I have fur and whiskers. _No_ , it's not a bloody _joke_. What did you expect, some heroic Nord like your leader to fit the bill?" They at least had the modesty to spare him an answer or half-hearted apology.

Nurr uncoiled his tail and lashed the frustration out of him. "Your opinion, mighty Stormbear?"

Kaarn's brow furrowed again. "I'll judge your worth by your actions."

"Good answer," Nurr growled. "Yes, I'm the unfortunate slayer she sent to help your little rebellion. Nurrkha'jay is my name; transcended slayer with a track record of too many of the overgrown lizards to remember right now without a drink. I've lived in Sky Haven Temple since I was twelve. Anything else you prejudiced bastards would like to know?"

He'd expected an ashamed silence to respond; instead, he actually got a worded reply.

"Yeah, there's something. Prove it."

A Nord stepped out to put flesh to his challenge. His long hair braided back, a shaggy beard blanketing his jaw, and fists the size of horse hooves clenching as though they itched to wring something. Nurr curled his lip. The Nord's expression wasn't much prettier.

"Bloody outlander," he snarled. "I'd bet you haven't killed a single dragon in your life."

Nurr almost laughed. "And what makes you the expert?"

"Four," the Nord growled, "four dead by my hands. Wrapped my arms around their throats and choked the breath from their lungs."

"Oh," said Nurr flatly, "so you've killed four wyrms. Wyrms are nothing to gloat about."

The Nord bristled. "Who the hell said—?"

Nurr rolled his eyes. "You did. Good luck trying to do the same on an adult. Their horns are all grown in by then, and their horns' sole purpose is to guard the soft bit of their throats where they can collect all the breath they need to project their Voices. That's the only place where you could possibly strangle a dragon in the way you described. Wyrms, meanwhile, have the fleshy bit of their throats still exposed, and their hardening scales are easily penetrable, by blade, arrow, spell, or brute force." He nodded to the Nord strangler. "As I said, you've killed four wyrms. Anything else I can help you with?"

The bystanders whispered among themselves. Their tone wasn't quite as degrading as before.

"Mralki, none here doubt your courage or strength," Kaarn interrupted, "but that's enough. Your mind is not your own. I understand you still grieve for Afheyr, but boasts born of pride and ignorance reward with dishonour. Go and rest, my friend."

A very ugly look came across the challenger's face. " _This_ is a dishonour," he spat, "welcoming a _cat_ into our keeping, entrusting the fate of our people into the hands of a…a…"

"…worthless, unknown, outspoken, impertinent, half-drunk Betmer?" Nurr offered. "I know, it's shocking, but here I am."

That earned a laugh. Stal cracked a grin. Mralki did not.

"You're no Blade," he sneered, "just a milk-drinking pussycat playing pretend."

"Is that so?" snapped Nurr, who'd had just about enough of this rubbish. In a flash Fusozay was in his hand, the sharp gleaming tip pressed warningly against the soft, tender skin above Mralki's jugular. Those around him started in alarm, he heard weapons being unsheathed, and Kaarn order, "Wait." Then there was silence.

"Take a good long look at this sword under your chin," Nurr hissed. "Go on, take a look." He saw Mralki's eyes nervously dart down and latch on the engraved runes in the blade flat. "This side spells the sword's name in my people's tongue. It means 'without regret'. The other side—" He flipped it over, and the weapon spun neatly on its tip still pressed against the Nord's throat. "—says something else. It proclaims, 'Knight Brother'. Every Blade's sword will say in Cyrodilic or Ta'agra, Dunmeris or Aldmeris, whatever language speaks them clearest, that he or she is a Knight, one of the Order that exists in secret in the shadows of the stonehold, continuing the work of our predecessors who were the first mortal men that the dragons ever feared. It means that we are a part of the legacy. We contribute. We serve. We kill. Oh yes," he growled, glaring furiously into the Nord's bloodless face, "we _kill_ , and not just half-grown dragonlings. I take no pride in the death I now exist to bring, but I warn you; accuse me of falsehood once again, little man, and you resemble the enemy as much as Alduin's thralls."

Rage smouldered gently in Mralki's expression, but he said nothing.

Nurr lowered the sword and faced Kaarn still bearing it. "Here is my proof, O King." He rammed it in the ground between them and it stood quivering in Kyne's sacred earth. "If my being here remains too much a trouble for you and your fellows, I'll gladly take my leave. We still have a war to fight and I'm clearly not needed."

"You _are_ needed, Nurrkha'jay," Kaarn said, even as Nurr turned away. Perhaps what stopped him was the fact the kid actually remembered, and correctly pronounced, his name in full. "Forgive our surprise and Mralki's temper. We share the struggle against the dragons and we welcome your presence, Blade slayer."

 _Do you, now?_ Nurr almost responded, although at the last moment he caught himself, reminded himself that there was no point sulking over the complaints of opinionated arses, and instead replied as politely as possible, "Remind me what I'm needed for."

"Come, walk with me."

The corral of unpleasantness was soon behind them. Fusozay remained stuck in the ground, and Kaarn left unnecessary instructions for no one but its owner to move it. Nurr trod up into the shadow of the Eldergleam with the hope of Skyrim at his side, Stalbreic bringing up the rear with the gaggle of advisors that had followed their prince down. "I hope you can find it in you to forgive Mralki for his doubt," said Stormbear. "He is a good man, but he has suffered recently to the dragons in the form of his wife."

"You mentioned an Afheyr," Nurr recalled.

"She was killed four days ago when her patrol was ambushed and destroyed by the dragon that has been hunting my head across the waning summer." Anger glittered in the youth's hard eyes. "I do not know the creature's name and I do not know where it resides, but I vow to all the Nine that her death will not be in vain. She was a fine soldier, a loving wife, a loyal servant of Talos and the old gods."

Nurr kept quiet. He didn't trust himself when conversation turned to religion.

"I sent for you," Kaarn continued, "because this dragon has been doggedly persistent. He is one of Alduin's lieutenants, and reports inform me that this creature belongs right in the World-Eater's inner circle. He has hunted us across the plains, and we feel his jaws closing around us. Eldergleam is our last true haven, and we cannot linger here for long while it circles above our heads. Dragonmen flood the tundra. Riverhome and _Lomoslom_ cry for aid and we cannot answer, not while the dragon hounds us and butchers my soldiers where it can."

Nurr gave a soft hiss. "So you'd like me to kill it?"

Kaarn looked at him. "Don't think we haven't tried ourselves," he said coolly, "but the dragon's the strongest I've ever seen. What attempts we've made on it have ended in tragedy and defeat. We don't know its weaknesses and barely understand the extent of its strength."

"What breed is it?"

"We don't know the name for it."

"Well," Nurr sighed, "that's something to go on."

"It's patterned orange and silver," Kaarn described, "with hideous frills framing its head, throat and tail in place of horns or armoured scales. Its wings are stained yellow. The creature's eyes are bluer than ice. Its cries bring devastation unlike anything I've ever heard of a dragon capable of doing. A survivor from one such attempt claimed her entire party fell to a single Shout. It wasn't fire or ice, but the life just left their eyes when the purple light struck them, she claimed."

Nurr stopped.

"You recognize it?" Kaarn asked sharply.

"Tell your woman," Nurr muttered, "that she was lucky to survive."

They came upon the landing of the Eldergleam. The tree stretched so high Nurr could barely see its topmost branches, but it was at its roots that held his attention. "All your sick and wounded are up here," he exclaimed, at the sight of healers wandering amid cots and hay beds bearing ailing soldiers.

"The healers say being close to Kyne's eldest child speeds the healing process and strengthens their magic," Kaarn responded. "I don't know if this is true, but I don't complain. The men do seem to heal faster. Perhaps being so close to a totem of the gods helps heal their minds."

The Eldergleam's roots snaked through the infirmary. When they could, the patients bundled cloth or their bedding under their heads and used the roots as pillows. Some stroked the roots occasionally, whispering what could only have been prayers.

"It's no wonder they feel safe so close to Kyne," said Kaarn quietly. "Their faith feels ascertained. Their purpose reassured. They feel better for the hard life that we lead; outcasts and forsworn and outlaws in the land we rightfully claim to be ours. Many of these men," he continued angrily, "were placed here because of that dragon."

Nurr saw that at once. Everything from lacerations to missing limbs to severe burns—frost burns, not fire. The blistered skin would blacken and wither on the living person, tempting disease to fester in the tormented flesh. There was no cure to dragonfrost other than amputation. Scraping the blighted flesh away could save the victim and merely leave them horribly disfigured, but if the blemish went too deep, came too close to the frail vitals beneath, only death was promised them. He saw none suffering from the aftermath of dragonfire.

"The creature breathes ice," he said, "and only ice. I am certain it won't know fire. Very few dragons are able to successfully balance the two opposite elements within their core, and project it into their Voices to use in battle. Only Reds can master this without effort." As far as he knew, at least.

"Would fire hurt it?" asked Kaarn.

Nurr shook his head. "Even Frosts have a natural resistance to fire. It is very hard to kill a dragon with flames. What destroys them is penetration, and when you choose the right places, they can be very vulnerable underneath all that armour they wear." He turned to Kaarn. "I need to know the dragon's type. I need to see it for myself before I can affirm it. I can't trust in an inexperienced hunter's description."

Kaarn thumbed the sword at his hip. "I killed my first at fourteen," he said.

"Bully for you," Nurr growled. "But I barely know you. I can't trust you yet."

"And what will it take for you to trust me? Trust any of us?" Stormbear folded his arms. "When we have nothing else, trust is all we have, and we have survived a hundred years for it."

"The Blades have survived Eras without it," Nurr retorted.

"We do not exist to exterminate the dragons," the prince countered. "We exist to reclaim our birthright and protect our country when no-one else will. We are strongest united, and those bonds are forged in battle and blood and brotherhood. If you are to serve with us, you must understand and respect our ideals too."

Nurr shook his head. "Don't think to convert me, boy," he rasped. "My Brothers await my eventual return in…my possible return to Sky Haven Temple." He took a pace forward and spoke only so Kaarn Stormbear could hear. "I am here to execute a purpose. Nothing more. I will serve you because my orders are to serve, but that is all. Do not ask me to change for you because I aid your war."

Kaarn had nothing else to say, but he understood.

"You should know that if we strike down Alduin's lieutenant, whatever it might be, then his wrath will turn to the east and will not abate until he or you are dead," Nurr continued. The boy wouldn't know what the Blades now did. He flattened his ears. "He's returned from the south. Him and no doubt the Dread, they have returned to Skyrim after gods know how long. They'll have heard of this rebellion, it's spread across the entire province, and it's common knowledge the World-Eater's throne is placed in the mountains that fringe your great land. You and he are dangerously close, and his kin are only too keen to serve him.

"I can kill a dragon. I can't rout an army, much less destroy a god. That task belongs to someone else and we all know how that turned out. This war will reap cursed rewards, that much I can promise you. You lack the strength and experience, even after a hundred years, to hope to win back Skyrim. Assassinating wildlings in the shadows and secretive murk of the stonehold is one matter, but we attacked one of Alduin's soldiers and our notoriety spread across Skyrim like wildfire; have Alduin's lieutenant killed in the way you suggest, and there'll be no more hiding. It _will_ be open war."

Kaarn did not respond at once. He turned to the Eldergleam, walked carefully to its trunk, and took a knee before it. More uncertain now, Nurr followed, wondering if the kid was praying or crying or quietly having an epiphany at the roots of one of the gods he fought in the name of.

Instead he spoke, rather softly and gently, as though his thoughts had completely abandoned their previous conversation. "Beautiful, isn't she?" he murmured, running his palm along the smooth brown bark. "Ulfric showed her to me when I was just a boy. Eldergleam watches over our mothers and children. They shelter themselves here where it's safe, where their children can grow safe and healthy, where they can prepare for the war they were born to join. But I was born a Stormbear, and that privilege was denied me. I could enjoy no peace like the rest of my peers. From a young age we have to understand the responsibility that we are beholden with, that we are born with.

"But Ulfric still took me to Eldergleam, a special pilgrimage of just him and I, when I was old enough to ride on my own without aid, when I could swing a sword decently enough to ward off the wild beasts. I came here and he had me kneel at her roots, to speak directly to Kyne. She listens to Her subjects. She has blessed us, he told me, because we remain true to Her and that's all She could ask. So I spoke my prayers to the tree, and at Kyne's feet my uncle explained why we had to fight, why we had to keep fighting. I was a child then, Nurrkha'jay, and when I was a child I shared the same misgivings about our fight that you shared to me just now.

"He told me about our forebear. How he never stopped fighting for his beliefs, for a dream of a country freed from oppression and tyranny. It might have seemed a hopeless dream, because the enemy was huge and impossible to overcome. He still fought on. He never lost the dream even when all seemed lost. He knew he was a doomed man the moment the Dragonborn turned, but he continued to fight down to the bitter end, because Nords are a stubborn folk and cowardice was not an option for him. He knew he was doomed and the gods did too—but his dream lived on, because the gods had given him an opportunity in the form of the Storm Queen.

"Freedom is an ambrosia that, once tasted, drives men mad. We'd do anything for it. My uncle said that we commanded an army of madmen who all carried memories and tales of freedom; but as Stormbears we were above those madmen, ancient descendants of mighty Ysgramor himself. Our duty was to drive the madmen in the right direction. To guide the generations that followed, to ensure that we would not repeat the same mistakes that had turned the other resistances to dust; that was our duty as Ysgramor's Heirs. Our progress is slow but it is certain. Fortune has not abandoned us and faith has not been for naught. Ulfric said that the gods speak to us through the course of the world and all we have to do is open our ears to listen, and our eyes to read the signs presented. It has been four generations of preparation, but our time is near. Ulfric believed it. I believe it."

Nurr tilted his head, curious at the unease that whispered under Kaarn's well-spoken words. "You afraid, boy?"

Kaarn was still for a moment. Slowly he turned. "I won't deny I'm afraid," he said. "Only a fool wouldn't be afraid of this enemy. But I won't let fear diminish the purpose that drives these men forward. I won't let it hold me back." He spoke determinedly, but doubt lingered in him unspoken. He tried to conceal it, but he sounded too much like an initiate preparing for his Blading to fool Nurr.

He clapped his hand on Kaarn's shoulder. "Fear is good," he said. "When you forget how to fear, you've forgotten the worth of life."

Kaarn got up. "It's not my life I'm afraid for," he murmured, "but for the men who pledged to die for me, for my ancestors, to ensure that I and my forebears lived." He sighed too deeply for a youth. "There is only one way that I could ever hope to repay their sacrifices, and that was to fulfill the dream that never died. Impossible…but there is nothing else that can be done. This is a Stormbear's purpose, and the purpose must be fulfilled, or everything that my kin have worked for will have been for nothing at all."

He looked to the tree again, milky light shredding through the leaves. "Eldergleam listens to my confessions, and Kyne hears them. Perhaps She will take pity on us all."

Nurr _tsk_ ed quietly to himself. "We make our own luck."

Dawn was here. He became aware of the fatigue lingering in his bones and turning his armour thrice as heavy as it needed to be. He remained uncomfortable in the shadow of a god he awkwardly denied. It was probably best to leave the hope of Skyrim to his prayers and contemplations, but oddly (and annoyingly) enough, the mentor streak that had resurfaced during this insightful discussion had one last thing to say.

"There's only one way to go in life—but if you look forward, you'll move forward much faster."

Which, Nurr conceded, was true enough.

 **d|b**


	50. XXXXIX - Revelations

**d|b**

 **-Ross-**

The mountains were collapsing. That was, at least, Ross's first impression of the tremendous quakes rippling through the walls and raining dust from the shrouded heavens. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms over his head, and prayed to all the gods that they'd accept him quickly.

The thunder swelled in volume until Ross thought his eardrums would burst; and that was when there was something like an explosion outside his door with force too great to be considered. He dared to look and at once wished he hadn't; he saw the door flying straight for him, off its hinges, fringed by terrible blue light.

So this was what death looked like.

It crashed into him and all the breath was knocked from his lungs. Ross thought that it had crushed the life from his bones, only he was still conscious when the storm of light and force ended. He could feel it pressing him in an uncomfortable manner against the wall. He could feel a buzzing ache crawling through his body. He thought he might be sick.

"Get up, fox-throat! _Get up!_ "

Ross's eyes snapped wide open. Uldmidaar's head hovered outside the shattered cell entrance, speaking frantically. "We cannot linger, we must escape, they will be coming for us both if we do not remove ourselves from their hellish hold!"

"What? What…?" He had to be mad. He had to be stark raving.

"Get _up_ , rider!" Uldmidaar twisted around, eyes blazing. His jaws parted. Blue thunder tore from his lips and the walls strained and trembled. Ross shuddered, and became aware that his cell door was still on top of him, pressing painfully into his legs and arms and chest. This was happening. He pressed his shoulder against it and shoved it to his side, and weakly crawled out from his corner. His limbs were trembling but every sense felt as if it were afire. He could hear muffled shouting and strangled cries, and the voices sounded angry.

"Quickly, _joor!_ There is no time and I need your aid!" The golden dragon twisted around, panting heavily. Ross leaned against the warped doorframe, trying to coax his shaking legs to take his weight. He stared at Uldmidaar; broken chains dragged in his wake from the manacles still fastened around his various joints. A huge iron yolk forced its prisoner to shuffle bow-backed, but fierce strength resonated underneath the gold-white hide.

"I don't understand," said Ross weakly, as the dragon turned back. "Why…what's going…why are you helping me?"

"Your fate and mine are sadly bound," Uldmidaar growled. " _Dur nust woun gro sille_ …Curse they who took both of our spirits prisoner here! No, together we were brought here, together we must escape…it is only right. _Geh vrah._ Neither of us would be here if not for the other." His posture turned taut. "They come. They fight through the wreckage I have made of their entrance point. But it is only a delay. They come and when they do then we both are ended. Hurry!"

Ross stood bewildered where he was. He numbly looked the length of the passage he fringed; rows of empty cells, some blasted apart like his, stretched along one side of the wall. The other overlooked a deep pit where undoubtedly Uldmidaar had been held. Huge cracks ran along the ceiling now, and dust fell in colourless bursts with every heavy step the dragon took. A heavy brass door that could only have connected this prison to whatever fortress lay above was buckled and bent, straining on its hinges. It was trembling in response to the punishing blows those on the other side were laying on it. Their captors were fighting to get in. There really was no time.

He stumbled blandly after Uldmidaar, still too startled to comprehend much. Uldmidaar had pulled himself through the crumbling walls and back into the pit. Ross tripped over fragments of rock and other sorts of debris, barely noticing them. It was only when he stood preparing to leap down after the dragon did sense finally come back and smack him in the head.

"What are you doing?" he exclaimed, as the dragon hurled itself on a portcullis making part of the wall. "We're enemies! You should have killed me!"

" _Hokoronne?_ " Uldmidaar twisted around, scowling. "And why do you say that?"

"You're…" Ross stammered for words. "You're…you're a _dragon_ , you're loyal to the World-Eater, you hunt men for sport!" _Now you freed me?_ It made no sense.

"Misunderstood!" Uldmidaar fumed. "To fool the so-called masters of truth! Such is the burden of my responsibility. _Nii los ni eylok._ It is not kind, my fate. It will be less kind if I remain here. No, your fate is not mine to decide, so come, help me with this gate!" He clawed at it savagely, and sparks flew from the vigorous contact from his large talons against the unyielding metal.

The banging from the busted door was growing dauntingly loud. Ross glanced at it in growing agitation. Still he didn't understand. He _had_ to understand.

"Why should I help you?" he bellowed, over the rising clamour.

" _Mey joor!_ " Uldmidaar whipped around, tail lashing. "I am no enemy of yours! I am no enemy of man!"

"You were at the _vaxnilz_! You killed that man—he was at your mercy and you killed him!"

"A lie!" Uldmidaar almost screamed it. He was agonized. "All a lie, do you not see? The man was caught and I was there, fortune placed me at the scene and what else could be done? He asked to die so the rest could live—I had to perform…" He roared and flung himself upon the gates again. " _Kiirre do qostiid,_ I must return! For nothing if it ends tonight!"

Ross shook his head, overwhelmed…his madness… _this_ madness…none of it could be true…none of it was wrong, not when it was like this. _He hasn't done anything to hurt me,_ he thought dazedly. _If he was an enemy of man he could have killed me…he doesn't…he didn't…he won't._

The furious banging on the buckled door was growing awfully loud. He could discern voices. Snapped back into reality, Ross was reminded of their predicament—if they were caught they'd be tortured or killed, and suddenly he knew he couldn't stand another moment more in this prison, asking questions that he couldn't answer. He forgot he was hungry, thirsty and exhausted the instant his eyes landed on something he thought could help. A collection of rusted black levers and gears protruding from the wall, and levers and chains all connected in such a way…

Ross staggered towards it, wrapped his hand around the nearest lever, and pulled with all his might. It barely budged; he'd lost a lot of his strength, but he threw himself upon it and used all his body weight to push the lever towards the ground.

Something groaned. Something rattled. Something clanked. Nothing moved.

Gasping, Ross pushed himself back upright, looked around quickly. There had to be something else. He could barely see, and groped desperately across the array of mechanics, searching for something, anything that could respond to his touch…

He heard a distant affirming _bang_ , shouts, footsteps, the rasp of a sword. Ross turned far too late; the metal-clad warrior was upon him, sword high. He tried to flee but there was nowhere to run, he tripped over his own weary feet and fell on his face. The warrior was above him. Ross tried to stand and was kicked hard, flipped onto his back wedged against a pile of fallen debris, to stare at the silhouette of the man who was about to be his murderer—

An enormous shape reared behind him, snatched the swordsman in huge fanged jaws, and flung him back the length of the corridor. There was an explosion of vocal outbursts, profanities and warnings and commands all blurred into on dizzying slur. Uldmidaar wasn't finished yet. He filled his lungs and bellowed a word, and the world turned fiercely orange, so bright Ross was blinded. He closed his eyes and turned away trembling as heat seared overhead. The cacophony of voices morphed dreadfully into shrill screams.

The burst of fire ended. Ross heard the dragon's wings filtering the smoke away, pushing it after the enemy, filling the corridor with thick black clouds. "Hurry, _joor_ ," he rasped. "Hurry…please."

Ross pushed himself unsteadily upright and clung shakily to the wall. "You killed them, didn't you?" he croaked, not daring to look.

" _Dur zey waan tol los ful_ , I hope not. Quickly, little one. Quickly."

Ross reached out; his sleeve caught on something, and his hand curled around a second lever, as heavy as the first, as much effort to push down. He hadn't eaten for days, and he shook badly as he draped himself over the handle and pushed down to earth as hard as he could. But the lever responded, after a few tries. From within the wall came a stern grinding, and the dragon suddenly emitted a cat-like cry of jubilation. " _Nii bex!_ _Zu'u fen daal, dii fahdonne!_ "

Ross looked down the corridor. He could hear their gaolers regrouping, and returning. They spoke furiously, and he distinctly heard them say _kill_. Freezing fear rooted itself deep within him, and blind to anything other than the thought of freedom and life, he stumbled after Uldmidaar.

The dragon had dragged himself under the raised gate and down a dark passage it had guarded. Ross clambered unsteadily into the pit and followed him, and for a moment stopped and stared. Chains dangled from the ceiling, or snaked over the floor in ruptured iron streams, and all had been broken. Had Uldmidaar done all this? Of course he must have. His cries had been powerful enough to crack stone and warp solid metal doors into grotesque statues; this dragon was powerful, dangerous, and yet Ross had no other choice but to follow him. Perhaps it was the sight of his blood, streaked across the floor in vast black smears, that persuaded him. He was not as powerful as he might be, and for some strange reason he had chosen Ross to help him, to spare his life now twice…even saved it from an otherwise certain end.

 _What does he want with me, this accursed creature?_

This was soon revealed. The yoke grating loudly upon the stone floor, Uldmidaar dragged himself down the sloping path and to the end, where the floor changed suddenly into cold black water. He was trembling freely. His green eyes were very wide, and his breaths rattled oddly in his throat, akin to a sobbing, choking sound a human child might make. "Horseman," he rasped, "can you swim? Can you see in the dark waters?"

It struck Ross then how helpless he seemed. Uldmidaar was afraid of water. Perhaps dragons couldn't swim. He was certainly behaving like one that couldn't. His tail lashed in nervous strikes. He was bleeding profusely from several wounds, streaking over his aureate skin and puddling darkly around his talons and folded gold-shot wings. His head moved awkwardly, the yoke barely fitting the tunnel.

"We must move quickly," he rasped. "I cannot turn. I cannot defend myself. They are coming, I hear their footsteps, their shouting."

Ross said nothing. He didn't know what to say.

"Mortal," Uldmidaar whispered, "I ask you humbly—and warn you knowingly. It will be your death if you stay."

Ross shook his head. "If I go…my honour is nothing. I am nothing"

"Your honour will kill you if you remain. You will be nothing if you stay. Akatosh will give you no other chance."

Ross could hear them coming as well. Their footsteps crossing the pit. Any moment they would be upon them.

" _Please_ ," Uldmidaar croaked, for the second time that night.

 _A freerider takes no sides,_ Ross thought, but what sides were there? Life and death. A side was forced upon him and he had to choose, to live or to die, and long before he had donned the pin and taken to wandering the world, he'd chosen his side.

He seized the dragon's snout and threw himself into the black waters, and Uldmidaar followed.

Ross couldn't see underwater, but the moment he sank below the surface, his legs working furiously, he felt the current, and he knew they had to go down. His back rubbed against the slope of the stone hold they were trapped within, and he took a hand from the dragon's snout to feel the shape of it, to guide them both deeper into the waters. Uldmidaar was trembling, flailing, struggling with the yoke still snared around his neck, but he was still strong and soon Ross no longer had to guide, but hold on. The dragon pulled them down. Neither could see where they were going.

His lungs were burning, his head was aching from the pressure. Ross thought he was going to faint. He pulled them up. They had to go for air or he'd drown. He clutched Uldmidaar's head and pulled it up after him, and amazingly the dragon followed. Power trembled through his body as his vast wings worked to propel himself heavenward, his thick tail sweeping new disturbances in the river's unceasing flow, his talons ungainly and clumsy but kicking furiously. The dragon pushed them up, up. The pressure began to ease. Ross felt the chill of the river beginning to integrate himself in him, and felt a very different kind of darkness stealing up on him. He didn't dare open his mouth, and forced his lungs to burn.

And then his head broke the surface, and that was when he inhaled. Cold, clear, wonderful air filled him and the flush of dizziness subsided at once. Uldmidaar's head broke the surface too, and the dragon's gasp was louder and thrummed with fierce joy. Ross opened his eyes; the dragon's were already wide, and staring at the paling sky, silver-grey with dawn and peppered with the fading stars. He rumbled with measureless joy. "Akatosh, _dii bormah_ , I hear you again!" he cried. "O, the shadows are fading from my mind! I am myself once more! _Unahzaal werid wah pah tol los pruzah ahrk tovokei!_ "

Ross couldn't stay afloat. He sank a little and gagged as water flooded into his mouth. He spat it out and choked, flailing desperately in the river. He didn't let go of Uldmidaar, who didn't seem to mind.

They had little time to revel; they'd escaped the deathly dungeon but not those that had incarcerated them. A horn sounded, somber and clear in the early morning. Ross was exhausted, but he forced his leaden limbs to keep pummeling, keep him afloat, riding the current as it drew them further and further from a vast stone island that seemed somewhat familiar; in its shadow, Ross remembered, they'd been captured. Nets had been flung down from the sky…

…and that was what was going to happen again, he thought suddenly, if they didn't get out of here.

"The bank," he spluttered, "we have to get to the bank!"

Uldmidaar made no response; after his exultation, he seemed to recall that he was floundering in the broad river, but he no longer seemed afraid. With focused, determined sweeps of his powerful limbs he rode the water and pushed himself towards the shore. Ross lost grip of his bronze head and clung instead to the yoke.

The dragon's swimming was still clumsy and thrashing at times, but he forced his way to shore. His clawed thumbs on his wings hooked into the gritty dirt and a moment later his large talons drove into the muddy riverbed. Then he pulled himself out of the river and onto the bank, and Ross let go and sank wearily onto the steady earth. He flopped back onto his back and stared dizzily at the sky, and for a moment was tempted to rejoice as Uldmidaar had done—they were out, they were free, they were back in the open, under the sun and the stars and the moons when they rose again that night…

" _Mal gein,_ look out!"

Ross saw the black mesh spinning down from the heavens, with impossible speed; suddenly there was an unbearable pressure on his throat, and the earth vanished from under him, and he felt hot breath on his back and neck as Uldmidaar swung him around. Terror overcame him and he struggled; he heard his clothes tear and he fell heavily to the ground. _I knew it,_ he thought faintly, _I was an idiot to trust a dragon, they hold their honour so cheaply…_ He waited for the killing strike, but it never came. He felt the snout push him roughly to his feet. "Flee, mortal, flee!" Uldmidaar shrieked. The net was stuck fast in the earth where Ross had been lying.

Ross tried to climb to his feet, but he was at the end of his strength and could only wearily sink back down onto his knees, choking on his own breath.

"No, _joor_ , do not give up now, freedom is yours!"

The dragon wasn't making sense again. It hadn't killed him. It had pulled him out of range from the net. Why did it insist on saving him? Why? _Why?_

A long, angry hiss sounded in Uldmidaar's throat. Ross looked at him blankly; the dragon was turned back towards the mountainous cliff bridged on all sides by the river; he reared, his white wings flaring to obscure Ross's view, but he still heard the three-worded bellow and glimpsed the fireball as it spun with amazing speed towards the summit of the rock. It crashed with a resounding _bang_. Ross thought he heard metal and timber splintering together.

Then he heard hoofbeats.

He looked across the river, where the road stretched by. He saw riders. He was bewildered. Their hunters had horses as well? What kind of people were they? They could imprison dragons and shoot them from the sky, drag them out of sight and drive them mad in the darkness, and now they were horsed and riding straight for them, armed and ready to kill. "Uldmidaar," Ross whispered, and coughed angrily, and forced his voice to rise into a wearied but audible rasp. "Uldmidaar, they're coming. We have to get out of here."

"We?" the dragon echoed, twisting around. Then his eyes fell on the approaching riders and a furious oath swept from his lips. An arrow hissed past, and another. Ross pushed himself up, but didn't know where to go, where to run. He was without his horse, lost to the stonehold…he had no means of defending himself and lacked the energy to do so anyway…it was over. They had won. He'd sided with life but would die nonetheless.

Uldmidaar collected his breath and hurled another fireball. He wasn't aiming to strike them, but rather the road just ahead, where the fires flared in a blinding orange burst that frightened the horses and threw the approaching enemy into disarray, the armoured riders fighting to control their terrified beasts. Then, wordlessly, Uldmidaar's golden head slipped under Ross's legs and smartly flipped the startled Imperial onto his back. Ross came to face-down between the dragon's mighty shoulders.

"Hold on to me," Uldmidaar growled, and his huge body lurched upward. Instinctively Ross clapped his hands around the dark spines ridging his back and clung trembling as Uldmidaar began to climb. "I am too cold to fly," he growled, half to himself, "I cannot fly, not yet, but we must move out of range somehow…" His talons scraped effortless scars into the cliffs as he mounted them with speed that surprised Ross. He dared to look after a moment; the bank they'd rested on was already twenty feet below them, and they were still ascending.

Ross clung harder, aware of a strange hammering in his chest. It struck him then; _he was riding a dragon_. And the dragon had been the one to put him on his back. Again, it made no sense…not immediately, not while his mind was frenzied, his blood was scorching, and arrows came haring past them.

Uldmidaar at last began to haul himself over the lip of cliff, grumbling as he did so, as several of the shafts now stuck quivering in his flesh. Most had bounced off his stone-hard scales but some had struck home, penetrating the soft skin between the plates, and a few had driven into his pre-existing wounds, causing him even more grief. Ross dared to look down at the river and the road below them; the riders had swum their horses through the river and stood below them, shooting up. Any moment, Ross thought, and they were going to hit one of the dragon's vitals, and they'd come plunging back down to certain death.

A blur of black caught his eye; horror unfolded in his stomach but the net didn't hit him; it struck just below, pinning Uldmidaar's tree-thick tail to the sheet of stone under him. Uldmidaar shrieked and strained wildly against the snare, but he couldn't free himself. He struggled with holding on, trapped in one place as he was; the baked clay ledges couldn't support his continued weight. Lurching and bucking, desperately trying to stay upright while tugging in vain at his trapped tail, Uldmidaar was vulnerable, a fly caught in a web; the heavy yoke forced his head forward, so he couldn't use his Voice to defend himself. All he could do was receive the onslaught of arrows that tore into him; into his wings, which were soon shot deep crimson with multiple arrow wounds, into his open wounds, into his softer underbelly. His screams of pain grew louder and louder.

 _They're going to kill him._ Ross's heart leapt harder, knocking on his ribs. _And if they kill him they'll certainly kill me…_ It wouldn't take long for them to get a bead on him. He dared to look down again. Uldmidaar's agonized thrashes were tugging more insistently at the mesh binding him. He wondered when another net was going to come flying, trap them to the crumbling cliff face. His eyes focused on the mesh already binding the dragon. There were huge heavy barbs burrowed into the cliff, but the soil was still loose, and Uldmidaar's continued struggles was loosening it everywhere. The mesh was beginning to lose its grip. It still clung fast but it was weakening.

Ross knew what he had to do. There was no time to feel fear. Using the many ridges of small black spines along Uldmidaar's back, he cautiously clambered down, lower and lower until he crouched on the dragon's hips. From here he could almost reach one of the glistening black barbs that hooked the spider-web mesh into place. Shaking with trepidation, he eased himself towards it, a little lower, a little further…he had it.

Then he pulled. When it didn't budge, he pulled again, and again. Clay crumbled past his sweating fingers. He wriggled the barb and kept pulling. Inch by inch, it slid free. It was hardest only in the beginning. Now it was coming out almost steadily. He almost had it. The mesh was losing its strength. Uldmidaar's tail was beginning to move more freely, and more vigorously, as though the dragon sensed that its snare was coming loose.

Ross's shoulder burned. An arrow cut through fabric and skin with unreal ease. He suddenly lost all feeling in his struck arm, and he swayed. Alarm clenched his insides and his hale hand gripped the dragon even tighter. Then the pain blossomed, and he yelled it aloud, barely able to suppress the agony of his ruptured flesh. Uldmidaar heard him, for he gave a mighty bellow and flung himself heavenward. The snare's hook popped out of its clay socket and within moments the rest had as well, and Uldmidaar was free. Ross barely held on as the dragon lurched frightfully under him. He was losing his grip…any moment now he was going to fall…

Then they were on level ground. Ross could barely speak, barely think at all. His injured arm was tucked into him, a horrible tingling in his hand, while something warm and wet trickled steadily through his clothes and over his skin. Nonetheless he had a strong urge to get high again. He pulled himself over Uldmidaar's back until he'd found the hollow between the dragon's shoulders he'd rested in before. That was when the dragon's wings unfurled. They were badly peppered with arrows, but they still clapped the air, bending the wind to their will. Slowly, certainly, Uldmidaar lifted himself into the air. Ross watched the ground turn into a distant scape below them, too vague to feel anything, only watch as the sky became their domain. He clung to the dark spikes in front of him as Uldmidaar, with heaving, straining breaths, pushed himself higher and higher into the sky.

Ross watched the clouds slip by in silver wisps. He felt the frigid air knife his sweaty face and burn into his wound and tear at the ragged mess of his cloak. He twisted his head up to look ahead of him, but the iron yoke blocked any view of the dragon's head. He looked across one blood-splattered wing to see the silver sky. He pressed himself lower into the dragon's warm body to escape the worst of the cold and the scorching winds. With an ear to the thick scales he heard Uldmidaar's breath humming through him, felt his power sliding under his hide in a series of flowing, comforting vibrations.

A dragon flew like a horse galloped, Ross thought to himself, smiling idly. It was a motion he was very familiar with. He relaxed. Something told him there was nothing more to fear. He still didn't have to think about anything at all, and for now he didn't want to.

The sun was rising. It was a sunrise unlike anything Ross had ever seen. For the first time in his life, Skyrim was below him. He was above the world. Uldmidaar rocked steadily beneath him, his wings drumming the air in deep heartbeat thrums. Tamriel was a painted canvas under his feet…and it was beautiful.

So beautiful that when Ross opened his eyes and found his back pressed against it once again, he wondered if he had been dreaming.

He sat up and knew at once he hadn't; the returned pain almost made him pass out again. He clutched his hale hand against the seeping wound and felt his own blood trickle past his fingers. His hand had gone completely numb. Ross tore a strip of his cloth and hurriedly tied a makeshift bandage over the arrow wound, binding it tight to suppress the worst of the pain.

He wasn't in his cell. There was fresh air in his face. The morning was stronger, but not much time could have passed since the sun's rising. Ross looked around and immediately found Uldmidaar, crouched a short distance away and watching him impassively.

Ross was afraid, briefly; then he remembered all that had transpired in the last dizzying hour or two, and the fear went away. It was calmer now. The urgency had passed. Now he could learn what he still found unfathomable. His mind sharpened, and questions formed in his mind and on his tongue. The dragon waited as though it had expected him to ask. Ross opened his mouth to speak…and nothing came out. Suddenly he didn't know what to say. He bowed his head in defeat and looked away.

Uldmidaar spoke in the silence. "You wonder, _joor_. I do not blame you." He took a step closer with a strangled sigh. He seemed burdened with the yoke, which he hadn't successfully removed. His head was lowered to the ground, almost dragging. He let it rest there when he wasn't moving, his horny chin inches from the grass. "Much we have shared now. Too much."

Ross again asked, "Why didn't you kill me?"

Uldmidaar's eyes glittered. "I told you—"

"—on the road. You could have killed me on the roadside, and left, and we never would have been captured." This Ross first had to know. Why hadn't the dragon taken his life? Why had it spared him, when it proved itself willing to murder countless others like the rest of its brethren?

Uldmidaar frowned. "You saw what you should not have," he growled quietly, "and the trust of the Betrayed is shaken…but it will be restored, when I explain. You stumbled across us by accident, and in doing so…" He shook his head. "You should not have seen anything of that exchange, fox-throat. Your fate has changed because of it. You saw what it almost became on its own. What it has become now that we embraced and changed our fates together…I know not, nor do I want to. I have had enough dealings with mortals in this treacherous land."

Ross forced himself upright a little more, onto his knees, so at least he was eye level with his unlikely saviour. "You talk a lot about fate," he observed. "You told me…" _Tampered with the fates of millions…_

"As I said," said Uldmidaar, "you should not have seen that. You will ask what it is, why I reacted so furiously when you saw it, and I will not answer you, and you will turn bitter…but nothing else will have changed. I fear the days you once knew are over. The shadow men, they will continue to believe their obstinate beliefs. I am going to disappear, and soon they will not be able to find me. But they will not stop hunting you."

Ross touched the pin at his throat. The cold metal stung under his bloody fingertips. Strangely enough, he was not surprised to learn this. Subconsciously, he'd accepted this long, long ago. His mad dreams were ever so slowly making sense.

"They see us as allies," Uldmidaar continued, "and after what we have accomplished together, to them it is beyond doubt. Your fate and mine were one and the same before, and for that…a connection we have unhappily created between us." The dragon scowled. "Though perhaps it had always been the way of Akatosh. You witnessed my performance in Whiterun. Freeriders do not normally take part in a _vaxnilz_ , but you did."

Ross blinked wearily. The old argument readied on his tongue, but Uldmidaar spoke first. "You still do not understand and I do not expect you to in a day. Know that what you saw wasn't what you thought. I appeared to murder Ulfric Stormbear as befitting a traitor's purge, but I did not. I appeared to utter an oath of fealty to Alduin, but I did not. The words were meaningless. I serve Akatosh, not him."

It was all coming true. It was all coming together. Ross wondered if he would ever believe it.

"All dragons serve Alduin," he murmured.

"No. All do not." Uldmidaar's nostrils flared. "Paarthurnax did not—ah, but you would not know of Paarthurnax, would you? Brother to Alduin, he was the first victim of the Dragonborn's betrayal. He was the one who gifted mortalkind with the Voice. He was the first of our blood to turn against Alduin and he was not the last."

Ross's brow furrowed. "You resist? You fight Alduin?"

" _Geh_ , but not yet. We await someone…a child, yes, a child whispered through prophecy. We have felt its birth somewhere in Skyrim, we have been searching for it…and readying ourselves for the day when it is revealed to us."

"A child of prophecy?" Ross echoed. "You mean the Dread?"

"No." Uldmidaar glowered. "Not him. He strayed from his path. He betrayed his destiny as he betrayed us all. This is another. This is a path that Akatosh has granted, lain down in our uncertainty to right the wrong that has been done to us all. We know not when the child will come to us, only that it has been born…and we Betrayed will watch and wait, and gather our strength. We sense the time is near. Very near." His eyes snapped to Ross. "That is not your concern. Our fates are ended. Yours you must find elsewhere. Mine remains as it was, now that I am liberated. Now I must return, I am delayed enough, and there is still much work to be done."

"I still don't understand," Ross protested, as Uldmidaar's pale wings unfolded slowly into the cool morning air. "You say you resist—you fight Alduin—why did you kill a potential ally? You and Stormbear…you could have worked together, you could have been even stronger…"

Uldmidaar scowled. "I did not want to kill him," he muttered. "Fate placed us together. Our fates were bound to one another then. I was doomed to end him from the moment we came across each other in the mountain paths. I was only following my instructions when I happened upon the battle. Ulfric knew defeat was inevitable. He asked me to be the one." He closed his eyes. "He knew of us. He knew what had to be done. It was too late for me to flee or hide, I would be seen by the reinforcements. If I fled, if I hid, I would be seen as suspicious and labelled a traitor. I could not fight them, I was far outmatched. Ulfric knew his fate was to die…but he asked me, so that I could live."

He became very still. It was some time before he spoke again. "My purpose is cruel and lonesome. I know what I must appear to the commons, in order to maintain appearances, to continue with the work Akatosh has assigned to me without hindrance or risk of failure. I must be as monstrous as the rest of my blinded brethren. But I do not kill without reason. I do not kill for sport or pleasure. I do not feast on the flesh of mortal men to sate my hunger. I am not brought so low as the beasts."

Ross shook his head. "That's not true and you know it. I heard about you destroying a farm and devouring the people that lived there."

Uldmidaar's eyes opened slowly. "No," he murmured. "That was not I—what else, but young wyrms desperate to prove themselves?" He hissed angrily. "I heard the commotion from my lair—I roost close to Whiterun over its river—and proceeded to investigate, to help the mortals if I could, but it was already too late. The farm was ablaze and the wyrms were feasting. They scattered at my approach. I was foolish that night—I lingered when I should not have, trying to quell the blaze even though there was no point, the farm was dust. It was no wonder I was named the culprit. I awaited the punishment that came of a freeflier breaking hold-law…but it never came, and it made me angrier. Liars, deceivers, unjust rulers that dominate this world…it is not right, it is not how mortals and immortals were made to be. Alduin has corrupted so many into harbingers of chaos and mindless cruelty…and I count myself most fortunate that I was not raised under his shadow."

The dragon heaved a tired sigh. "This is enough. I must be away, and so must you. The shadow men will be hunting us both but they will follow the easier trail like any wise hunter. You and I have served one another and escaped together. The connection is sealed. Our fates were shared once and despite my misgivings I fear they will be shared again, such is fate's fickle nature."

Ross wondered what he meant by that. "You mean to say we'll meet again?"

Uldmidaar blinked. "If fate is kind, we will not need to. But fate is rarely kind."

Then his wings unfurled; still with the yoke about his throat, he pushed himself into the sky; he winged his way into the cover of the clouds; and then he was gone.

Ross did not move for quite some time afterward, but continued to think. He tied loose ends together, concluded in certainty, and ascertained that Uldmidaar had indeed been speaking the truth about all that he'd said. He was indeed no enemy of Skyrim, the freerider told himself, because Uldmidaar had not said _Ahgelingrah_. He had named the city before it, Whiterun.

Like the Nords of Old, like Kaarn Stormbear, he had named the world for what it was, and would be again.

 **d|b**


	51. XXXXX - Elven Pride

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

Dragonlord Vylornar had been assigned his own personal quarters, as though he'd stayed in Pale Pass for quite some time. Viper located his room before he returned to it. The many winding overlapping corridors had not succeeded in bewildering her. Even she was surprised at how quickly, how easily she discovered it. Fortune was indeed smiling at her this morning.

It was modest, she thought, far too modest for a Dragonlord. The room was longer than it was wide, but contained all the essentials required for comfort. There was even a rug thrown over the frigid stone floor. Viper herself did not tread on it. She slipped through the doors and promptly climbed to the arched black ceiling. The room was in a state of repair, and beams spanned the room, providing perfect means of movement across the entirety of the chamber. The old stone also made for good climbing.

She felt safer perched above, hidden so close to danger. It almost seemed strange, how effortlessly everything was coming to her. Or perhaps it was something else; it might be her, accepting something she'd resisted unknowingly across her whole life. She was quite sure she knew what it was, but she didn't connect with it yet. She didn't dare to.

When she heard footsteps thumping by outside, Viper froze and waited for the door to open. It did not. Besides, she berated herself, Dragonlords did not 'thump'. No doubt those passing men had been the dragon servants, once more on their needless rounds. They would not find the Listener. Darkness was her element. They would not find Viper, either. Not until she wanted to be found.

Time had been granted to her. Viper intended to make good use of it. She moved across the room, studying the empty scene under her. There was a small table beside the window, an unlit cluster of candles bound by its melted wax in the centre. There was also a bottle, an empty chaste goblet. This attracted Viper's curiosity, to a point when she ignored everything else in the room, descended from the ceiling, and approached it. The bottle was weighed with its contents when she tried to pick it up, and the faded label pronounced an old vintage. The date declared the wine was well matured.

Viper wondered why this was of such interest to her. Then she saw the cabinet, tucked away at the foot of the bed. She investigated that as well. She opened it; bottles were stacked on bottles, and the labels told a similar story.

 _Vylornar is fond of his wine,_ she surmised dryly, as she carefully reset all that she'd touched.

Again, footsteps outside, and Viper's heart sprang into her throat. But nobody came in. They went past. _I cannot let myself be caught out again,_ she told herself angrily. _Do not be slack. Be alert constantly._ Her old thief instincts were kicking back in, thank goodness, after that little scare. Hyper-aware of her surroundings within and without, she returned to the table and tried to wonder why she felt the wine was an important tool.

Her fingers brushed the pouch at her hip, and it came to her.

She placed a blue-tinted bottle into her gloved hands and gently removed its stopper. The scent that first greeted her spoke faintly of wormwood, but after that it was odourless. Viper was quite aware of its potential, and what she had brewed it to be able to do. She placed a few drops onto her fingertip and rubbed it around the rim of the goblet. Then she applied a second layer. She decided not to place a third. If the poison stacked too much then there was the chance a smell and taste would linger, forewarning the unsuspecting of the threat.

She also placed a single drop at the bottom of the cup. Then she lifted herself into the roof-bound shadows again, positioned herself, and waited.

A few minutes passed by in apprehensive stillness. Then she heard the footsteps. Soft and steady, almost rhythmic, and she knew that the Dragonlord was here. Excitement flashed briefly through her, strong enough to make her insides churn; then she quelled it. The cup was marked. She knew it would succeed, with a certainty she couldn't explain. Perhaps this was how all assassins felt before the quarry stepped into their line of sight.

The door creaked open and Vylornar stepped into his chambers. Then Viper went cold. She had not anticipated Ollos to still be with him.

"You're certain you can't have Ausnahyol return me to _Golgevild_?" the Dunmer demanded. He was no longer speaking the dragon tongue, but Viper could feel the effects of the Vernaculum wearing away and wondered just how long she'd spent treading the shadows of Skyrim's most dangerous enemies. "I cannot take this," he went on, as Vylornar gently shut the door in their wake. "The humiliation of riding dumb horses."

"This is the price you must pay for losing focus, my friend," said Vylornar, ever courteous. "The dragons intend to shame you. Bear your shame nobly and they will come to respect you again. But they will not bear you."

"They honour debts, don't they?" Ollos growled, eyeing his Brother beadily.

"Debts, yes," Vylornar nodded. "But you can't force a debt upon a _dovah_. The debt will be on their own terms. That is the wisest approach to striking one with him. I have never asked Ausnahyol to take me anywhere. He will carry me for as long as he finds it fitting."

Ollos curled his lip. "Then that will be forever."

"I doubt it," Vylornar said pleasantly. "Ausnahyol is still a young specimen. He is still grateful for what I have granted him. He is an honourable friend. But there will come a day when our paths will diverge. Any Dragonlord's wingsteed will do the same. Zoornahldir and Cadmir no longer fly together. Zoornahldir has proven his worth and received new arrangements. One day Ausnahyol and I will share that fate. I have already accepted it—you, my friend, must accept your shame."

"I won't accept it," Ollos growled. "Acceptance of this degrading truth is weakness, to myself." He paced across the room towards the table, then turned back and pointed at Vylornar. "You'd better bring me good news from _Aarhorvutah_. When you find this thief, you'll bring her straight to me, alive, unspoiled, and well aware of what is going to happen to her. Turn the city to ashes if you must. I will have her."

Viper didn't dare move. She didn't dare breathe. She wasn't afraid; no, she was still excited. She even found it hilarious. She was now starting to see it as the world's greatest game of hide and seek. But Ollos had reminded her why she was here. Slavetrap remained in danger on her behalf. A message needed to be sent, to warn that the city remained under her protection. It was still hers.

"Obsessing like this clouds focus, Ollos," Vylornar reprimanded, crossing the room. "Keep your mind. Joorpaalrah has granted us new orders. He relies on you to bring him the answers he needs. We were all shamed this night, and rightly so; our new Brothers prove more and more of a disappointment." He sighed in a troubled manner. "Of the five, only two remain…how glorious we were when we rose. Astarr we expected to perish, but Analor and Nisenthril should have continued for many more long years, as befits a mer. Nisenthril was young but cunning and Analor…I remember when we fought the Empire together twice over, and when we finally destroyed it. All the corruption purged in the flame…it was a most beautiful time. For decades the five of us were the only ones that carried a dragon's respect. The armies we wielded, the havoc we purged…but those glory days may subside for now."

"We still remain," Ollos said. The two seemed lost in memory. "Skyrim is ours. Skyrim, the seat of our master's power. When we guard it, we hold power over all of them. The first of us are not dead when the first of us still live, still perform."

"Indeed, my Brother," Vylornar conceded. "I disapprove of the others, however. The younger, weaker ones that have flaunt themselves so. Cirroc…" He curled his lip. "Remind me why that mewling man was ever granted a _golsekroz_."

"He was once Merigard. He was a talented dragonslayer and had a gift for worming his way out of death's embrace. He was a dangerous man, so dangerous that Joorpaalrah found potential in him. When he offered a chance of greater power, Cirroc obeyed. Power was all he'd ever yearned for, a lowly sellsword as he'd been born. He is a weak little thing, but he can perform."

"He has been a Dragonlord for…how long?"

"Coming close to twenty years. Borissean has been our Brother for twice that length."

"He is thrice more worthy." Vylornar laughed softly to himself. "Borissean 'Bloodsand', they call him; Analor 'Nordsbane', Astarr 'Bonereaver', I the Firestorm…such odd things that mortals name us. Even Joorpaalrah, the Dread. I suppose that name is too much an effort for their groveling tongues to utter. It makes me wonder what they might call you."

"You think I give a damn about names?" Ollos muttered. "So long as I serve and reap, I'm contented."

"Careful now," Vylornar warned. "The dragons don't like contentment."

"True." Ollos paced for a few moments more, and Viper wondered if the topic was going to return to her. It didn't. "Some of the things the others shared," the Dunmer growled, "about…even the _Falmer_ , those fetid crawlers having the nerve to fight against us. It is a ridiculous thought, and yet Lucifer would not lie about this, nor a dragon. None of us are liars."

"I'm more curious to know what use they'd have of the eggs."

Ollos made a derisive sound. "They'll have tossed them over the cliffs or eaten the unhatched offspring for their next feast. It makes no matter. No egg can be hatched without its mother." Vylornar nodded wordless agreement.

"For now the antics of the Snow Elves are of no concern to me," he dismissed. "You and I have business and it will take us separate ways, as they always have. Ausnahyol is waiting out the snowstorm before we remove ourselves from these cold old ruins. Sirrien has agreed to find Zoornahldir and inform him of Joorpaalrah's suggestions for us on his and Vulqostrun's way back to Morrowind. _Aarhorvutah_ awaits my unexpected return and you have a mystery in the stonehold to solve." Vylornar now turned his attention to the wine on his table. "A drink before you depart?"

"No, I've rather lost my taste for it. Besides," Ollos continued darkly, "I'll need to keep my wits about me if I'm to ride back through those accursed mountains." He turned for the door, and halted. His eyes still smouldered with anger. "Every day," he demanded, "I want news of progress."

Vylornar smiled thinly. "Word will be sent to you, rest assured, kinsman. And progress will be made, very quickly."

Ollos nodded and was gone. The door shut heavily in his wake. Only then, in his presumed solitude, did Vylornar busy himself with serving himself refreshment.

Viper was still cold and she didn't understand why. It wasn't fear, dread, or anything dark and harrowing—indeed, she felt as if she were completely wiped blank of emotion, as though invisible eyes were watching her, and motherly hands were guiding her, assuring that all would be well. She needn't fret any more. Everything would slip into place and, commander of the moment, she would witness what she would witness.

 _The Guild remains in danger._ Hawk-eyed, she watched the ruby liquid fill the goblet, the bottle replaced on the table, Vylornar take the cup in his hands and inhale the rising fumes. Excitement was quivering in her now. She waited, hoping against hope…but what fortune had offered her came to pass. The rim of the goblet met the Dragonlord's lips and he drank deeply.

Viper smiled broadly beneath her cowl, and began to count. _The danger is diminishing._

She waited until Vylornar had drained his goblet before she moved. Soundless as night, she lowered herself from the ceiling, dropped upon the ground, and for first impressions positioned herself in a chair across the room, facing him. The danger was diminishing with every passing second. She was still smiling to herself, absurdly proud of what she had achieved this far. Nightshade tingled on her lips, reminding her it was as impatient as the rising sun. _Soon_ , she vowed.

Vylornar sensed that he was not alone. He accepted this most admirably; he became quite still, perhaps coming to terms with the reality of the situation dawning upon him, and asked very calmly, "How long were you here?"

Viper pondered over a suitable answer. The soundless response prompted Vylornar to turn his head, and then to turn around completely upon realizing one that wasn't his own was present in the room with him. Underneath his hood it was hard to discern his profile, but his eyes glowed ember-like beneath the rim of his patterned cowl.

She decided it best to keep quiet, for now. She adjusted her position slightly, in the form of tilting her head in a questioning manner. Her continued silence forced Vylornar speak again. "It's been a long time since I last saw that armour surface on the face of Tamriel," he continued, eyeing her up and down. "But I haven't forgotten who wears it, or what belongs to it."

Slowly, he set his goblet down.

"Assassin," said Vylornar, "are you here to take my life?"

Viper spoke softly. "I'm done with taking things, my lord."

She continued to feel no fear. She felt like someone else…or someone who she had always meant to be. The change she welcomed. This was beginning to turn surreal; it surely couldn't be so easy, or perhaps it was made so with the more dangerous the enemy. She rose cat-like onto the balls of her feet and wondered if this old Dragonlord was so susceptible to womanly charms as his Brother.

It was hard to describe him now. He remained excellently composed even if he had become cautious. "So what are you here for, my dear? Perhaps you'd like information upon your real target. Or perhaps you thought yourself fool enough to attempt my life in the process of murdering another. You should know," Vylornar continued, slowly advancing, "that you won't leave here alive after this. You might as well speak now. Enjoy these last few moments. Normally I wouldn't give my enemies this opportunity."

Viper was still counting. _Fifty-one…fifty-two…fifty-three…_

Fifty-four. Vylornar suddenly stopped. He looked down at his hands, and flexed them. His fingers moved well enough, but that hadn't been the response he'd been hoping for. He made a strange sound, a faint shuddering gasp, as though he'd received a nasty surprise—then he staggered backwards in, she considered, a display of very mortal weakness. He fell against the table and clutched it hard to steady himself. _It can overwhelm at first,_ Viper mused. _The more one fights it, the angrier the poison becomes._ She allowed Vylornar to struggle, to accustom himself to the reality now flowing through his veins, before she asked him sweetly, "Is there something the matter, my lord?"

Vylornar kept his eyes hidden, his face turned towards the floor. He still spoke so neatly, but his former self-assured manner had departed. "What have you done to me?"

Viper chuckled. "It's remarkable," she said, "the damage that a few well-chosen plants can do when their potential is locked together. No man or mer may resist my poisonous influence, not even those who claimed to have left their mortality behind."

"I never left it behind," said Vylornar, regaining his posture. "I merely serve the higher cause."

"Immortality," Viper observed. "And look at the reward it reaps. Here you are at my mercy, my lord. You, who destroyed so many lives, the one they call the 'Firestorm'…but the fire's gone out in you, and you are now so very cold without it."

"I am not without power," Vylornar smiled. "My masters have not been without promise. I am so much more than a pyromancer. I am a lord among even the dragons. Their fire is _my_ fire, and when fire burns it burns hot and high and hungry."

"It has gone out," Viper repeated, lowering her mask so he could see her smile. "Dragons are immortal, but not immune to the consequence of mortal creation. Poison. So low, so _simple_ , and beautiful because of it. Gods think they can't be harmed by such small things born in the soil under them. They never suspect. You are no different. You think yourself a god among men, don't you, my lord? Taste what your pride has reaped you. There are bolder things than worms that crawl about in the dirt."

"You think you're the first to have tried this?" Vylornar inquired. "I've lived through many wars. I've succeeded countless confrontations, in number or alone. You may have stemmed the flow of my magic but do not think for one moment that death will come to claim me so quickly. It has not in the past. It will not now."

"Every man has his time," Viper answered.

Vylornar assented. "As does every woman."

Viper saw the gleam of the knife in his hand long before she anticipated the strike. She was already moving for him, clearing the distance between them in a few swift strides. She caught his wrist, glimpsed the tip pushing down for her throat, forced it aside as she thrust herself against the Dragonlord—and kissed him.

It was instantaneous and immediate.

The knife slipped from his slackened fingers and clattered on the floor. The rest of him would have followed if not for the chair Viper guided him into. It was beside the table, and creaked as his weight fell heavily into it. He draped across the seat like a used cloak. She remained upon him, gazing over his frozen form. It was the look of terror in his eyes that seemed to hold her still. Did he taste the raw, fatal nightshade? Viper could; the poison was warm and tingling on her lips, but no harm was done to her. She wondered how the Dragonlord felt, and with nothing left to lose, if he showed it. She was curious, and moved his hood back to see his face.

She had not expected to see such a handsome profile revealed to her. Here she thought all the villains were ugly evil creatures, that all men twisted by the dragons were granted hideous altered appearances. But he still retained much of his elven appearance, the bronze skin, the slanted golden eyes devoid of the glowing flame, the high sharp cheekbones and tapered chin. There was a silver sheen to his hair. He looked no more a dragon than the Listener. Barely beyond mortality as another High Elf.

He had been nothing more but a pawn.

She could feel faint tension running through his body under her, and shook her head. "Don't try to fight it, my lord. The red tears will come easier if you don't."

Vylornar's eyes were scared, but his delivered words were calm. "Of course it would be you."

"Who else?" Viper traced the flow of his jaw with the tip of her finger. "I was of such interest to the rest of your number tonight. You couldn't stop talking about me. But you don't know everything about me. You've barely begun. Riften would have burned for nothing. I had no intention of returning there. You'd never have found me."

"So this is why," Vylornar whispered. "You kill me, you protect the Guild I otherwise would have destroyed."

He'd accepted his death, but his eyes never did.

"For the life of me," Viper told him, "I would have been gladdened to see my old Guildmaster burn at your hands. Nothing would have given me more savage pleasure." She suddenly found the hood a nuisance. She tossed it back and her dark hair came tumbling free. "But there are others innocent of my crime."

"So your Guildmaster betrayed you," Vylornar observed. "Then your vengeance is misplaced."

"This is no act of vengeance," said Viper. "You have done _me_ no wrong. This is prevention…and a message."

"To whom?"

"Guess."

"Ollos." Vylornar rasped for air with growing difficulty as the serpent inside him began to attack his vitals. "My death will warn him of the consequences of a pursuit continued against you. A thief turned into an assassin, for the sake of exacting vengeance against the Dragonlord you stole from? Who has hunted you across the province because you took something that belonged to him?"

"I know what I took." Viper leaned close, to better see the lingering terror in Vylornar's reddening eyes. "I took his power. I took his authority. I took his respect. I took them all at once. But they were never meant to be his. Skyrim was never meant to be his, or yours, or Alduin's. You all betrayed the land, and betrayers…they have prospered from the reward of their treachery, until now. Now the betrayers will reap their consequences."

She grinned. "Be honoured, my lord. You are the first. You will not be the last."

"You will take their lives," he murmured.

Viper shook her head. "I told you before," she breathed, "I'm _done_ with taking things. Now I give. Be at peace, Vylornar, for that is what I have given you."

It was taking sterner hold. He choked on his breath, on his own tongue, as his chest heaved feebly. A single scarlet tear trickled from the corner of his eye. This was not how he had intended to die, he must have thought. Done away with poison like some poor damned nobleman at an ill-fated dinner party.

Viper could feel his heart racing far too fast. Any moment it was going to give out, she told herself. "When you have passed from this world," she whispered to him, "the darkness will ask what it is that brought you to it. And you will answer; it was not by means mortal or immortal; it was not the relief of age, the deterioration of the body through disease or hunger, the victim of a spell, no; elven pride was the death of you. A serpent served her purpose this way and will do so again."

Vylornar shuddered once. His scarlet eyes rolled into his head. The racing heart became abruptly still.

Viper slowly stood. There was a faint ringing in her ears, a stillness that lasted inside of her. She continued to gaze upon her handiwork, barely registering the distant shrieking howl that swept suddenly through the fortress, which lasted for far too long and sounded far too alien to belong to any mortal man. She did not hear the deliberately sounded footsteps that approached, but she felt the hand that came to rest upon her shoulder.

Everything slipped back into focus. Viper turned.

The Listener had removed her mask. She was not smiling, although there was no disapproval about her. Quite the opposite.

"We are done here," she breathed. "Come, Sister."

Viper smiled again. _Sister, not Sister-friend._ How interesting. How welcoming.

She delved into the darkness once more, and both were gone long before Vylornar was found.

When he was, word spread like wildfire across not just Skyrim, but the entirety of Tamriel. On the first bright morning of Hearthfire, his honour High Dragonlord Vylornar Andorhlil was found dead in the shadow of the World-Eater, weeping a dozen crimson tears.

 **d|b**


	52. XXXXXI - The Gathering of the Eight

**d|b**

 **-Chase-**

One by one the great packs came. All had heard the summoning. All had heeded it.

The swift sons of the golden plains came first. The Pack of the Fleet Moons came within days of the call. They were smaller than Chase had anticipated, and shaded in browns and greys to blend best with the flaxen grasslands. But they were quick and nimble, and carried generous appetites with them. The White Sun were particularly mutinous about having to share their hunting grounds with these gluttonous plains wolves, but there was nothing else to be done, and they travelled further and further to feed each passing sunrise.

Then came the Stone Foots, similarly coloured to the Fleet Moons, but darker and stronger and far better climbers. They were as lithe as mountain cats, and preferred to feed in the rockier scape of the White Sun's hunting grounds. Many had been brought, and the goats disappeared very quickly.

The far eastern hunters answered next. Black Fire came alone, the smallest in number than any of the other packs, although their size proved daunting. These wolves grew huge, with pelts to match the darkest night, and very few words to say. They preferred their solitude even in a gathering, and were best left alone. The discomfort that spread among the others at their arrival encouraged this.

Rain Sky and Ice Wind came together. Both were starkly different, but had agreed that travelling was best done in number. The vibrantly-pelted wolves of the autumnwood were cheery and gracious, while the frost-like dwellers of the southern mountains seemed to reflect their territory, as they were as cold in nature as the scape they hunted in. They also grew very large, and white-pelted Ice Winds and black-pelted Black Fires immediately sensed rivalry. The two were more alike than any other pair of packs, the colours of their furs aside, but that seemed only to instill a stronger sense of competition than kinship.

The Pack of the Dusk Bane arrived on autumn's second sunrise and were by far the most numerous, but also the weakest. They could not match the Black Fires' strength, or the Fleet Moons' speed and appetite, the Ice Winds' ability to track or the Stone Foots' agility. All they had to call their own was their number, twice as many as any other. The White Sun welcomed them nonetheless. The more they had to fill the gathering, the better.

Then, at last, the Old Moss arrived, on the fifth evening of autumn. Their company was the smallest, barely able to be called a Pack. Then it was learned they had sent only a representation of their greater number, which preferred to dwell within the greenwood and maintain control of their territories. Their alpha had come, with his mate, a few of those he trusted, and some of his strongest hunters.

What shocked the White Sun was the age of the Old Moss alpha. He seemed twice as old as theirs, Shirju, and Shirju was by their standards almost at the end of his prime strength; the time when a wolf was approaching his twilight days. The Old Moss alpha seemed in his midnight and still walked, long-toothed, long-haired, bowed legs bending as they wearily took his weight.

He was challenged, of course, of the many decisions the wolves took offense at; his right to rule at the age he was, how few of his number he had brought, his leaving the rest of his pack behind…and he pacified them all with but a few words. Chase was certain of the tales of the Earth Magic it was whispered the Old Moss wolves bound themselves to. She was made even more certain of it when, but hours before the assembly was due to start, the Old Moss alpha sought her out directly.

She had remained reclusive, preferring not to show herself to the other packs until the gathering began, but while she and her alpha were sharing a meal, they were approached by the aged wolf. Chase had not been wearing her wolven form, simply because she tasted food better with a human tongue. As soon as she realized they had company, she wished bitterly that she had chosen her wolven skin, and almost considered changing right there and then to signify her strength to the intruder when she realized who it was. The old wolf needed no proof of strength. Every other in the clearing beyond was stronger than him, even the newborn cubs.

"I apologize for intruding," the aged one rasped. "But I had hoped for a word in private with the one responsible for gathering the great packs."

Shirju climbed to his paws and showed his fangs, bloodied from the meal. " _Olyj-raghal_ , you have no right."

"I have every right to ask." His wizened stare lingered on Chase. He was not surprised to see her in the form that she was. Or perhaps he had always known. Chase still scowled, mistrusting of the nature of Earth Magic in any form.

"You will learn the reason for coming here when the gathering begins," Shirju growled.

" _Az'raghal_ ," Chase interrupted, "it's all right."

Both looked at her. She looked at them both. Shirju seemed on the brink of a response, then sighed irritably and took his leave in a whisper of paws. The Old Moss wolf watched the other pass him by, then blinked and sighed. "I have upset him."

"You upset me also." Chase straightened herself. "Now what is it you wish with me?"

"I wish to look upon you and see if what the wind sings to me speaks true, _shay'k-sh'aghar._ "

The elder seated himself across from Chase and looked her over with eyes the colour of tree sap. His pelt was dark brown, shot through with hoar-fringed bronze. His paws were gnarled, and he was very thin, but also very tall. Chase watched him guardedly.

"I am _olyj-raghal_ ," the Old Moss wolf declared after a few seconds had gone by. "You are more than the hunter among hunters. You are also _rassak_. The chaser. Pure-blooded man-wolf in constant pursuit, and many natural years you have to enjoy this privilege. Milk-bound child of the White Sun. There is much I know about you already."

"So why are you here, _az'raghal olyj?_ " Chase asked with a frown.

"Because I must tell you that the war you propose cannot be won, not on our own." Olyj paused for a moment, as though daring Chase to protest. She did not. "We are not alone in our hateful resentment of the _krag-nalihr_ ," he went on. "I have spoken with some of your elderly, and they tell tales of an old stone dwelling of the _krag-nalihr_ in your territory guarded by four ancient beasts. The wolf is one of them. Already it has risen, will rise, in great number, and so we fear nothing any longer. But alone, but even as one great pack, there is no hope of penultimate victory. I tell you that the other beasts are rising too. Serpents and bears and foxes, they too are gathering their strength, finding their paths, daring to strike where they did not before. Ravens fly from the green and the elk are heeding the call of their earth mothers. Who are we to deny the flow of change? Change is what bloods this world, and Earth Magic is change given power to act through its children."

Chase climbed to her feet. She'd long discarded her need for clothes and stood woman and bare before the old wolf with her red hair flowing long and matted about her. "And what concern is this to me, old crone-male?"

Olyj was not offended. "All my life I listened to the earth mothers," he rasped, "and I listen to her still. The hunt has become of small regard. The _krag-nalihr_ will not cease in their numbering and to hunt them in the murk of our home continues to prove pointless. More will replace the ones that we kill. We embrace a new mind, a new existence. It is a purpose with unclear end but with driving force that binds the soul to its path. The greenwood spins a prophecy unfathomable to our ears. All that I know is that it speaks of children." He mounted his old paws. "And I have every reason to believe that a raven will fly for you. Something binds you…calls you…to our home, the green. It was where your ancestors were born."

Chase said nothing. She tried to restrain the sudden urge to bend down and listen with baited breath to the old one's words. What was this that he spoke of, her ancestors? She knew nothing about her predecessors. She only knew that she was pureborn, a wolf and a woman sharing one body and one soul. Those that came before her, however, she knew nothing of. This was why this idea, as twisted as it immediately sounded, sharpened her interest profoundly.

Nonetheless she said, "My responsibility is to my Pack now, old crone-male. Not to your heretic fancies. Only Lupa I serve."

"Lupa mothers us all," Olyj said somberly, "but Hircine sires _you_."

Chase growled more out of puzzlement than denial, but found nothing to say.

"The whispers are his that I cannot fathom," the aged alpha went on, "for my ears are open only to Lupa. But the manbeasts are his, every one. His blood is their blood. He can speak to you, in the birthplace of your kindred, but you must be there to hear his will."

Chase shook her head. "Hircine I do not serve. Hircine will not take one who will not slay all creatures—and I do not slay wolves."

"Perhaps not," Olyj rasped, "but whatever calls you speaks in the tongue of men. The message is intended for you, child of him and his wolf-wife. You bear his blood, and it resonates with you in a way that it has not for any other of the manbeasts. You are pureborn. It is not by chance that this is so. Change is breath in you, done without effort and thought. This is no coincidence in the times that exist around us now.

"This path is yours to tread, and when this night is done, the journey begins for us all."

He rose and began to take his leave.

"Do you know the purpose of this gathering, old one?" Chase asked after him.

Olyj paused and turned back. "To name a _targhalis'raghal_ ," he answered.

"The packs will unite to face the enemy that is the _krag-nalihr_ , the untrue hunters," Chase reminded him sharply. "Do I have the allegiance of the Old Moss? Or does the loyalty you keep to the heathen fantasy of Earth Magic bind you to nothing else, not even to your own kin?"

"It is no fantasy," Olyj smiled, "for here you stand, earth changeling."

He departed, Chase left in a haze of continued bewilderment. Strangely enough, against her better nature, she wanted to believe the old one's words. She wanted to unravel these new riddles, as she'd unraveled her alpha's. _But now is not the time,_ she decided. _The twin moons rise high and shine bright this night. The great gathering must commence and conclude before the sun stirs._

She lost her appetite and stood to attention as Shirju returned. "Gather them, my alpha," Chase ordered. "We begin now."

"You speak like a _raghal_ ," Shirju rasped. He did not seem disapproving. "Do you remember what I told you about this?" he said. "Long ago, in the plains when you were _rassak_ to the barbaric two-feet? I warned you how the other packs will see you."

"Yes, so you said," Chase murmured, remembering. "An abomination." She studied her silver-scarred palms.

"This gathering is on your blood and soul, _aji_." Shirju lowered weary eyes. "If you cannot control it…there is no hope of unity of the eight. No chance of success against the _krag-nalihr_. We cannot fight that which rules the air and exhales infernos. But we can't stop. I pray you have found the answer, _shay'k-sh'aghar._ May the alphas bend to your word."

He seemed old then, Chase thought; the White Sun were the most feared hunters across all of Skyrim, across the eight great packs, and that was their strength, but it wore away the wolf the quickest. Shirju was old, still strong, but his strength slowly failing. She was struck with pity, an emotion unusual to her kin. She approached him, knelt before him, and took his silver head in her two hands.

"It will not fail," she vowed again. " _I_ will not fail."

A low satisfied growl rumbled in Shirju's throat. "You have never, _aji_."

He left their quiet hollow and summoned the packs together with a warbling howl, a single low melancholy note that was answered with seven corresponding shorter cries. The packs were assembled. Chase rose to her feet and felt her blood humming through her veins. Change was natural to her, but not yet. For this to work, they had to see her in all truth. Woman and wolf were one and the same and that was her greatest strength.

"Shirju," she heard a stranger say, "we eight are gathered at last. Now tell us why you have brought us together."

"I did not summon you," Shirju responded.

Chase revealed herself.

She was on a cliff, a mound of stone-crusted earth that overlooked the broad clearing below, and below were hundreds of wolves, more than she'd ever seen in her life. Wilderness brothers and sisters of all colours, of all sizes and strengths and scents. All sons and daughters of Lupa, all followers of the hunt. And all looked upon her in fury, and angry growls rent the air. Only the White Sun, gathered below the ridge facing the rest, and those of the Old Moss made no sound.

"What mockery is this?!" snarled one of the Black Fire. The thunder-black beast stepped forward, yellow eyes alive with disgust. "A human among us! Disgrace! Shame! You befoul the name of your pack, blasphemous old pelt!"

Shirju fidgeted, but made no sound. He would let Chase fight her own battles. _Not yet,_ she warned herself, _not yet._

"The White Sun grows mad in their desperation," sneered another, her scent of the Ice Wind. "Look at what they offer us—an alliance between two-feet and wolves! The little thing would make a decent mouthful but that is all. This was a joke from the beginning."

They thought she couldn't understand them. Chase grinned. Almost. Almost.

"See what I think of this wretched gathering!" cried a third, stone-silver, dark-footed. He was already halfway up the rise, bounding with breathtaking nimbleness. He could only have been a Stone Foot wolf, and by the time Chase turned to meet him he was almost upon her, springing through the air with his yellowed fangs aimed for her throat.

She seized his in one hand and shut away his breath.

Those below fell abruptly silent.

Chase bore him in the air for a moment, staring up into the Stone Foot's startled eyes, before flinging him down. He fell writhing, clear of the cliff, and landed heavily on the earth with a shocked whimper knocked from his lungs. The rest withdrew hurriedly, drawing a clear circle around the fallen beast. He was still alive, but stunned. He lay where he was, panting, his legs folded in like a wilting spider's.

 _Now_.

There had been some truth to Olyj's speech before; change did come so easily to her, so thoughtlessly. Chase pushed herself off the edge of the cliff in a leap far too high for a woman to make. When she hit the ground she was wholly wolf, and alarmed yelps rippled among the throng she had thrown herself into the heart of. The rest retreated further in their surprise.

Breathing deeply, Chase straightened and surveyed those before her. Behind her lay the stunned Stone Foot. She did not address him yet, but lifted herself slowly to the tips of her four sets of claws and pronounced, "I am as much a child of Lupa as any of you." Her voice carried strongly across the gathering. Ears pricked, tongues lolled, eyes became bright with interest. She looked upon the alpha of the Black Fire, who retreated slowly but fearlessly. He was only cautious.

The scents became profoundly sharper, telling so many stories that Chase allowed, for a moment, them all to unfold in her head. She pinpointed each scent to their origin, and located where the scents became strongest. The alphas of each of the packs; she located them each, and circling slowly, spoke to them. "Lupa graced a hunt of mine," she growled, "and blessed me with her own words. How many of you can be so bold as to say the same? She loves all her children, watches keenly the hunts they pledge in her name. She tastes the blood of all your victories, shares in the suffering of your defeats. I have known both in spectacular display—and I have learned from them. This is why I have summoned you, alphas, sons, daughters of the wild. We face a threat unprecedented, and we must respond in as much greatness."

"We know the _krag-nalihr_ ," interrupted the Dusk Bane alpha. The small brown hunter stepped forward and addressed her directly. "We know them as our enemy; all of us know them as our enemy. But they cannot be fought. They destroy with fire. Their size overwhelms. Their talons shear stone and their jaws crush bone. Not even in number can they be overwhelmed, they are far too powerful. Believe me," he growled, "we have tried, and we have lost many of our packmates to the folly of hunting this evil."

Chase showed him her fangs and he went scurrying back. "They are powerful but not invincible. Men can destroy these demons, and so can we."

"Men use cunning and cowardice to fight them," snarled the Black Fire alpha. "Creatures of wood and metal that spit nets into the sky and bring the sky-eaters crashing down to earth. Their claws of metal penetrate the armour scales, their sharpheads taking flight in volleys and tearing the wings apart. My pack and I watch these hunts unfold often, and have done across the years. The east surges with humans defeating the _krag-nalihr_. Of course they can be killed—can any creature not?—but humans are equipped to fight that enemy. To fight in the way that this bitch spawn speaks would mean the death of our packs."

Chase snarled at the jibe, and perhaps would have lashed out at this bold speaker if she had not reminded herself of the fragility of this gathering. _One wrong move and it will be for naught. I must act carefully, and speak even more so._

"I have heard much of the ferocity of the Black Fire Pack," she returned. "You fear no flame, you fight with a savagery unmatched by any other Pack. But you flee from this enemy, tail down and ears flat, when you have seen what can be accomplished with cunning?"

"You have heard true of us," the Black Fire _raghal_ defended in a low, furious snarl, "but we are not so mindless as some. I only lead hunts that reap success and flesh to feast. That is how the hunt should be, to glorify the pack, the individual and the mother—not to provoke open war with the _krag-nalihr_."

"It is done," said Shirju heavily. "They and we, the White Sun, war with the _krag-nalihr_."

Shocked exclamations arose. The Black Fire alpha bore his fangs.

"You have doomed your pack to death," he snapped. "So be it, that is your choice, that is your right as _raghal_ to decide life or death, one over the other. But you summon us here to demand that we participate in this folly? _Sh'sagahrr!_ " he barked. _Madness!_ he'd cried, and within moments the others had taken up the howl. _Sh'sagahrr! Sh'sagahrr!_ "All reason has been lost to you, _raghal shirju_ ," the alpha sneered. "First you embrace this blasphemous spawn of human and hunter; now you wage war against the enemy that cannot be defeated. We cannot tear them from the sky any more than we ourselves can fly!"

Chase rushed upon him and bellowed, "And who are you to say that?"

" _Kqaihr-raghal_ ," the black wolf answered, meeting her stare boldly. " _Az'raghal_ to you, insolent bitch."

Chase felt the flush of fury seethe through her, her claws tingle, her ears pound; but she restrained herself. Spilling blood in this manner would destroy the gathering. She could not risk it. She would not risk it. The scarlet of Kqaihr, Black Fire alpha, was not worth shedding. "You are no alpha of mine," she whispered instead.

She looked among the rest once more, pointedly turning her back on her challenger. "What choice did we have?" she shouted. "What choice do any of you have now, but to wage war upon the oppressing beasts! The hunters of hunters, they say they are! _Shay'k-sh'aghar!_ The arrogance of them knows no bounds and what do you do? You surrender! You allow those creatures to hunt your territories dry, to burn your sacred lands and slay your own kin! Your humility disgraces all that your hunts praise; you disgrace your pack, yourself and Lupa in your continued _meekness_ in the face of these untrue hunters."

They protested, naturally. Now the Ice Wind spoke. The large white she-wolf advanced to state her thoughts directly to Chase. "I, _vhrak'ra-raghal_ , speak now, and I tell you, atrocity, that you are wrong. You are deaf to the truth. This is the enemy that cannot be fought. Fire is not only theirs to command; some bear hearts of winter and bring the frost death upon us. More elements are theirs to wield. I have witnessed once a creature so cunning it turned wolves against wolves! It destroyed their souls without a move, forced those unfortunate specimens to turn against their own ilk and slay them for a mad ideal the evil placed in their shattered minds. Now how do we fight an enemy that can turn ourselves against each other?"

Again the whisper flickered through the packs: _sh'sagahrr, sh'sagahrr, madness, madness…_

"We fight among ourselves now for no reason," Chase answered her coldly. "I see no difference."

" _Az'raghal-vhrak'ra_ ," the she-wolf snarled. "Know your place, whelp."

"I know my place," Chase told her, "and it is above you." She reared, a titan that stood high, high above the rest. Vhrak'ra's eyes turned as round as the Stone Foot's. The Ice Wind alpha had perhaps not expected her to be so large. "I know all of our places," Chase bellowed, "and that is that we, the true hunters of this earth, stand righteously above the untrue hunters. What are we, wolves who rule their spirits or dogs enslaved to their masters' will? I ask again, what are we?" She glared among them all. "Hunters or hounds? Free or bound in unwilling servitude? The dragons feast on your prey, slaughter your packmates, turn your homes to ash and dust—you are too afraid to challenge them even when it is your right and your duty to defend the land of your ancestors!"

A few eyes flicked low; a few were listening, a few were converting. But many remained obstinate.

"And what would you know of defending your ancestors' glory, she-demon?" The alpha of the Fleet Moons now approached. "You have no land to claim," he jeered, "no rooted soil to defend; you are a creation of insult to our kin, and insult us still by living among the White Sun, hunting their hunts and feasting upon the flesh of their spoils. You should have no right to even lead this gathering of packs! You are no true wolf!"

At this, Chase flew upon him; she would stand no slight to her honour, or to her pack's. The plains beast was trapped under her; he could feel the strength coursing through her limbs, the sharpness of the talons she dug slowly through his mottled pelt and into his skin, and the fury that burned star-like in her glittering eyes.

"I am truer than you," she growled, her teeth snapping lightly at his throat. He whimpered. "I fear nothing and no-one," Chase hissed, "not even the dragons. I have bathed in their blood and feasted on their flesh. I have torn them from the skies. There was a female who intruded upon my hunt; she slaughtered the prey that was mine, and fled with the prize. I did not allow her to escape the crime of stealing a hunter's quarry and right."

She stepped back, allowed the shocked Fleet Moons alpha to scramble to his paws. "The _krag-nalihr_ favour your rich golden lands, do they not, _raghal_?" she growled. "How many slights and offenses to the honour of your pack and your individuals, all the glory to the mother lost to their hideous maws…I cannot even begin to fathom. You should be drowning in your shame, your cowardice is despicable. I daresay you have not once tried to punish a false hunter."

She swept her fierce stare around. "Have _any_ of you tried?"

"Stupid beast!" Kqaihr sprang forward, almost catching Chase off-guard; his driving fangs snapped inches away from her foreleg. "How many times must this be imparted upon your unhearing ears? Dragons cannot be fought by wolves!"

Chase glared at him deeply. _He calls me unhearing…but he is unseeing. So swift to challenge when he does not even register the truth before his blind eyes._ "Then explain my victory over the dragon I hunted myself," she demanded. "Why is it that I succeeded in my hunt? I destroyed the _krag-nalihr_ as easily as I would have destroyed the life of the prey in the fields!"

"You are not like us," Kqaihr snarled.

She leaned close to that. "And how am I not like you?"

The alpha showed his fangs. "You are an abomination."

"An abomination, you call me, but I kill my enemies, not run away from them."

She'd slighted the honour of the Black Fire. The Pack responded furiously, rushing upon her with enraged shrieks. She didn't move, but swatted them away, sending them spinning. The wolves retreated even further, drawing a broader circle around her. Kqaihr watched in dismay as his great hunters, the fiercest among all the rest, were effortlessly subdued. They seemed half senseless as they unsteadily regained their broad dark paws.

Chase showed her fangs in a long loping grin. "My truth is proven blatant. You cannot argue now, Kqaihr." She turned back to the _raghal_ , who stared at her with a different expression in his yellow eyes. "You will consider me what you will, but I am fast, and I am strong. Stronger, even, than the Pack of the Black Fire?"

A hiss swept through the gathered at the daring of her challenge.

Kqaihr bristled with fury. "Never!"

"Then prove it," she snarled. "Stop skulking in the shadows. Stop surviving. Start living. Fight for your territories. The _krag-nalihr_ are intruders upon your homelands, and you let them wander so freely?" She raised her voice and once again addressed the entire assembly. "Defilers of your lands, devourers of your prey, desecrators of the hunt—they are traitors to the wild law and must endure our mercilessness justice. I have slain such a creature, and I am proof that they can be killed!"

She brandished to her Pack, still and silent behind her. "The war is waged upon the _krag-nalihr_ and see what it has reaped us! We, alone, led by _shirju-az'raghal_ , vanquished a settlement of men under the protection of these dragons! The nest destroyed in a single night, living bodies eradicated and ended. These men defended themselves with the same tools that they use to hunt the dragons, and they were nothing compared to the wrath of the wild."

"Men," said Kqaihr, "are not the greater enemy."

"I know the minds of men. Tear a man from his weapon and he is helpless," Chase declared. "Tear a _krag-nalihr_ from the sky and it is just as vulnerable."

"And how do you propose to tear a _krag-nalihr_ from his domain?" demanded Vhrak'ra of the Ice Wind.

"They are drawn to the earth to hunt their sustenance," Chase answered her. "That is when to strike; in their moment of distraction, as they themselves are lost in their hunt, we hunt the hunter. A dragon skimming the earth can be reached. Strength and number will drag it to the ground. Crippling it will prevent it from taking to the air again. Agility and speed will serve together in exhausting it until it can Shout no further. Scales will be torn away, and it will be pried apart, until its flesh is open. It is so soft underneath all the armour it wears, and tears so easily to fang and claw." She looked among the Packs as she spoke, associating their individual abilities. Ears were pricking, and the whispering became soft and excited. Many more were listening now. They were opening themselves to the possibility.

"Or," Chase went on, "they can be tracked to their lairs. They are blatant hunters and use their size and power to frighten all competition into submission. Their lairs can be found by scent and sight." She turned to Vhrak'ra. "I hear you and your brothers are unrivalled in the art of tracking the prey, sharpened to precision by the difficulty of your hunting grounds. Imagine the ease of following trails imprinted in soft unchanging earth, where scents linger for months after it has been laid. Imagine the ease of slaying such a large beast unable to use its size in its small narrow lairs. We are much smaller than they; those lairs make perfect battlegrounds for us, more so than for them. They need space. We do not."

The white she-wolf blinked thoughtfully.

Then, Olyj of the Old Moss spoke. "My pack has hunted the _krag-nalihr_ ," he croaked. "They intrude upon our territory and do all that _rassak_ has spoken. We do not stand for their insolence, and among the trees they make themselves especially vulnerable. They have nowhere to move, and the trees shield us from their rage-filled breath. When deprived of the element they value most, the eternal domain the sky, they are quite helpless."

Seriously, he held the eyes of his brethren. "They can be killed, my brothers. They can be hunted, and they can be ended."

The whispering swelled into rapid barking.

Chase stood tall. "I ask you again," she growled, "are you wolves free of spirit or dogs enslaved?"

There was a great chorus of fierce dignity proclaimed, but it was an answer to her question. Excitement twisted knots in Chase's soul. _Promise them an opportunity, promise them blood, and they forget all dark things they ever thought about you—promise them what they want, and they abandon all personal opinion and follow willingly._ She glanced at Olyj and nodded her thanks before returning her attention to the excited packs.

"We have served ourselves alone before. The victories against the _krag-nalihr_ were few and fewer. They were fierce foes, immortal, cunning, swift and strong. But they are not true hunters. Their weakness becomes our strength, and strength swells wondrously when it is bound in unity. That is the legacy of the wolf, companionship, brotherhood, victory shared through the efforts of many. The packs are great because of the legacy glorified in the hunt. Now we embark upon the greatest hunt of all, and we must have the greatest pack to forge the greatest legacy."

A somber hush descended.

"A Blood Alpha must be chosen," Chase roared, gaining power in the breathless silence. _We are so close…_ "The _targhalis'raghal_ must approach and win the right to unify the eight great packs and lead the hunt. That is the way it has been and shall be now."

A single wolf stepped forward.

Chase turned to her, bewildered for the moment. "You claim the title?"

"No." She was _raghal_ of the Rain Sky, and had not spoken until now. "This is a gamble of all our lives," she declared solemnly. "We may all die to the dragons. They are scattered all across the continent, and what are we but a few? Our numbers cannot match their might. If this war should unfold in the degree proposed, then the dragons will respond—they will respond with numbers of their own, and drown us all in death. It will be the end of the packs."

Muttering, muttering, _sh'sagahrr_.

Chase turned to her. "It is already the end of the packs if we do not fight," she warned. "We are finished alone. Together, united, we are a force indeed to be reckoned with. The many can accomplish what the few cannot. This is the wisdom of the pack. It will be multiplied a thousandfold if eight become one."

The small dappled she-wolf bore her fangs. "Eight individual packs become one unity. And what happens to our eight customs? We will forsake them in this. The risk is too great. We will lose everything our ancestors have preserved."

Chase rushed her, stared deep into her watery brown eyes, and promised darkly, "Linger in the past if you will, but the past is done, our ancestors are dead, and so shall we be if the eight maintain their pride and depart as eight. We could return to being the hunted ones—or we could become the hunters of the world again. Choose."

The Rain Sky was quiet.

Chase turned at the sound of circling paws. The Stone Foot alpha spoke now; she recognized him; they'd acquainted themselves within the first few seconds of the gathering. He regarded her cautiously as he inquired, "And what do you believe that the eight great packs could accomplish if we become one this night? What seal of promise do you offer that vows victorious hunts ahead?"

A cunning question, but one Chase had anticipated from the very beginning. She caught Shirju's eye and knew he was thinking the same. What answer to his riddle had she provided? What would ultimately bind these eight great packs together?

 _Some_ thing _, not some_ one _, must unite them…_

She flung her arm up and laid her wrist open.

The packs recoiled in amazement. Chase brandished her open wound, and her scarlet trickled thickly into the open, visible to all.

"Blood," she growled. "This is the promise. This is what awaits you, awaits you _all_ , should you remember your fury, your spirit, your instinct, and rise with the pack. It is the promise that drives every hunt. It is the fuel that drives our lust to kill. When the scent of blood meets us, we do not abandon it until it is warm in our mouths and sings on our tongues. It is the offering we make to Lupa, and to each other, and what feeds the pack. _Krag-nalihr targhalis_ is the promise, my brothers, my sisters, and since when has a hunt promised us, given us any less?"

The thick crimson dripped heavily to the ground.

The wolves watched the droplets fall, and looked soundlessly among themselves. Then, to disturb the stillness, Shirju stepped forth. All eyes rested upon him. The pale wolf swung his head to look once around the entire assembly, and then he lifted his chin and rasped, "Under the moons, under the stars, bold to the wind to carry afar, the promise is sealed in the living red; the mother's vow writ in the blood she has shed."

He looked to Chase, and there was respect in his old eyes. "Mother of blood," he murmured, raising his chin. "Lead the hunt."

Chase's ears flicked back in amazement.

The packs were stirring, but there was only one whisper that leapt from tongue to tongue. Pelts were bristling. Eyes shone like stars in the darkness. They whispered, chant-like, on the edge of hearing, on the spur of their breaths. _Targhalis'raghal. Targhalis'raghal._

"Mother of blood." The Stone Foot approached humbly, and bared his throat in a gesture of fealty. "Lead the hunt."

"Mother of blood." The Dusk Bane performed the same. "Lead the hunt."

"Mother of blood." The Fleet Moons stepped forward, briefly unsure, but certain as he said huskily, "Lead the hunt."

There was no doubt. Eight was becoming one. And one was leading them all. _Targhalis'raghal._

"Mother of blood. Lead the hunt." The Rain Sky swore her allegiance.

"Mother of blood. Lead the hunt." Vhrak'ra, _raghal_ of the Ice Wind, surrendered her authority.

"Mother of blood. Lead the hunt." And so too did Kqaihr of the Black Fire with shadowed eyes.

"Mother of blood." Olyj was the last to quietly present himself, and he looked calmly upon Chase, the child of change. There was knowing writ in his old face, a quiet reminder of the words they had shared. He had always known, Chase realized, as he said, "Lead the hunt."

It was done. Chase stood tall, above all the rest, a mighty specimen and the unchallenged leader of all the great wolves. She looked among her pack, the one great pack bound to blood, and smiled. So it was done. The White Sun's war would not be fought alone, and before the day of her dying she would taste the sweet red of dragonblood again.

 _And not just the_ krag-nalihr _._ What better than to tempt a creature of unparalleled destruction than present a challenge, a competition to the title? The settlement in the mountains had been, would be, only the first—and unwary men were easy prey.

The dragonholds would fall.

She threw back her head and howled her triumph for all the world to hear, and around her the chorus changed. The hunters of hunters lifted their voices in a single cry that carried over the frigid land, to be heard across miles, perhaps the entirety of Nirn. A Blood Mother was named and the hunt was begun.

" _Targhalis'lupa!_ "

 **d|b**


	53. XXXXXII - Zoornahldir

**d|b**

 **-Nurrkha'jay-**

Though each day presented something new, Nurr quickly grew weary of the Nords of Old.

His quarters were found in the shadow of the Eldergleam, a small tent complete with a pelt-thrown hay pile, a chest to store his personal items and a rack to hang his armour and weapons. He unpacked very quickly, but had no time yet to rest on the first day. It seemed he no sooner had sat down to breathe when he was invited to join a patrol; the dragon had just been sighted that early morn, winging his way past the old fortress of Mistwatch, which turned out to be a scarce half hour's ride from the sanctuary. There was no talking his way out of it, but Nurr remained in a very bad mood for the rest of the very long day.

They didn't see the dragon. They did kill a few dragonmen. Nurr didn't remember much of the fight, only that Stal looked at him with increased respect from thereon out after it. He supposed his archery skills must've impressed. Fusozay remained stuck in the dirt.

The next few days proved more rewarding for everyone. Nurr made use of himself examining maps and then learning the land. He quickly became sick of the sight and stench of the stagnant sulphur pools, both of which he complained about. Stal, who seemed to have been assigned to watch over him, merely laughed and assured him he'd get used to it. Nurr was tempted not to deliberately, just to see if he could. Nonetheless Nurr was starting to recognize a vague sort of pattern in these volcanic marshes, and the Eldergleam Sanctuary he was pretty sure he could locate now on his own from the outside.

Stal had plenty to tell Nurr on the occasions that they were riding together. Patrols became long enriching history lessons.

"Once there were giants living all across Skyrim, from fair flaxen Whiterun to the frigid north, even to here in the steaming flats of Eastmarch. When the Dragonborn turned, they were the first species to die off. They were strong, but slow, them and their mammoths, and the dragons gorged themselves on both the large, easy pickings. If there are any remaining giants, they'll have wisely gone under. Can't say there'll be any mammoths left. They don't do so well underground, so I heard."

"This rugged land left many hiding holes and hollows, for bandits, for beasts, and for those mad cultists. The first Ulfric Stormbear found the remains of a shrine to the Daedric Prince Boethiah near the Asodar Fords. The statue was something gruesome, I'm told, all tentacles wrapped around a hideous woman or something like that. Well, it was, at least. The dragons made good to abolish any artefact, emblem or shrine to any of the Princes. The dragonmen hunted down and exterminated the cults. Ysmir the Unworthy had a hand in much of these. So Daedric influence waned from the world, but I'm not quite sure yet if we're all the better for it or not.

"You think we've been idle all this time we've been waiting for a leader like Kaarn to rise? Hardly. Our wars have been many, heavy, demanding, and rewarding. We conquered our land long ago. Ulfric the First drove out all the Falmer that lurked underground across a good majority of Skyrim. Vanquished every nest, every crawling blind monster, until now we rule the Dwemer's ancient halls. You've been wondering how the hell our messenger found you so quickly, eh, Dark? And he got back quicker than you. We've been travelling underground since the dawn of clan Stormbear, mastering more of the network of Dwemer passages every generation."

This Nurr learned on the fourth day, and remained the point of greatest interest to him. "And how many of these Dwarven cities have you claimed?"

"Can't recall right now," Stal frowned, "but each one in Eastmarch is accounted for. Whiterun and Falkreath had none, but the Pale had plenty. A good chunk of our forces are found underground in the Pale, we made an excellent discovery in Lady Sira's day."

"You going to tell me about it?"

"Let's space all the learning out, shall we? Don't want to go overwhelming your poor drunken head over it just now." He grinned as he said it, and Nurr thought then he was very reminiscent of Rogghart in almost every regard.

The fifth morning presented more news about the enemy. The dragon's forces were trickling into the Dwemer tunnels and had ambushed two patrols. The members of both returned alive but wounded. Kaarn was troubled but unsurprised by the news they'd brought to him. Nurr was spared the saddle and invited to participate in one of his incessant war councils, which the young bear seemed to hold almost every day. "The dragon's starting to catch on to some of our tactics," Kaarn Stormbear proclaimed. "Our forces are no longer as safe underground as they were before. Our patrols must double, and word must be sent to those in the Heart, in case we fail on the front."

"You won't fail," Stal assured him. "None of us have. None of us will."

"Nonetheless," Kaarn countered, "I would not have any of us put in needless risk. Send a runner to warn them."

The lad had a good grasp of his authority, Nurr reflected. He wondered if this 'Heart' was the 'excellent discovery' Stal had mentioned, but bothered no-one with this matter at the moment. Nurr suspected he'd learn about it soon enough. As Stal had said; no need to overwhelm his poor drunken head. It hadn't taken Nurr long at all to find out about the large supply of mead the Nords had, right from the first day. Not much ale, but mead didn't turn out too bad, once he got over the taste of honey.

In any case, Kaarn decided that the entrances to the underground passages must be sealed off to prevent any more intrusions into the network of paths they'd made for themselves over the years. The dragon could not locate the Sanctuary, and any threat in the form of those who'd chosen Alduin over Talos—their fancy term for dragonmen—had to be eliminated. They could not afford to take prisoners. Nurr would have liked to explore these underground Dwemer passages, but Kaarn reminded him that he still had a dragon to hunt.

Nurr still hadn't seen it in the flesh, but all the hints, tales, descriptions and evidence pointed starkly to one of the Revered race. He racked his brains for any Revered dragon lieutenants and remembered that they were among the World-Eater's most favoured warriors, for their unusual natural Shouts and their ability to swim. It wouldn't take long for the dragon to ultimately swallow his fear of going underground. If any would, it would be one of those infernal buggers. As for a lieutenant, he couldn't recall any names, though he was certain there was one or two in active service right now. He considered pointing this out to the young bear, then decided he'd have some solid evidence for himself before pronouncing the breed of the bounty hunter. Even if it meant more bloody riding.

The search again proved fruitless that day. Nurr tried again in the thick of night, with no success, not that he'd expected any. It was just safer to search when the dragons were asleep. The following morning he busied himself with examining the maps again. Old ravaged dragon lairs had been marked in various places. The nearest was situated beside the same waterfall Nurr and his horse had stopped to replenish themselves beside towards the end of their journey. There had been no activity there since the Raiders had destroyed its last occupant, and the roads above were swarming with dragonmen. It was too dangerous to patrol. Nurr had a rare reprieve, which was spent in the company of Kaarn, and there he learned the young bear's intentions for Eastmarch. It would be first. Then all of Skyrim would be liberated, one hold at a time. The people would taste the price of freedom and rise to fight for that, if not for him. Kaarn fought only to inherit his birthright, but he would uphold the duty of any rightful Jarl and that was to defend his homeland from any threat. If they still saw him as a leader in that respect, then so be it. But he would not ask them to follow him.

Nurr asked why the hell they might ever see him as a leader. He didn't mean to be so blunt, but he still thought the battle plan pure fatal folly. He then learned about clan Stormcloak's fall and clan Stormbear's rise. That same day he also saw the dragonjewel.

"The real question," Nurr said, as it was replaced in its ebony coffer, "is if you know how to use it when the time comes to."

"A fair one," Kaarn conceded. "Yes, I can. How long my uncle spent researching into the matter…it took an expedition to the resting place of the Bonereaver to come away with the information we need to activate the Rendingstone. There is script engraved in the whorls around the stone; the script is written in ancient draconic that keeps the stone's power contained, like a cage containing a very angry beast. Merely present the key, and the cage is unlocked and the beast is released. It is the subduing that will be the hardest, but it can be done. Focus is needed, but that has been a Stormbear trait. Ulfric Stormcloak was trained in the Voice and for an ordinary mortal man to use it requires unparalleled focus and concentration. It rebounds across his descendants, so I'm told. The magic is still strong in us weak mortal vessels."

Nurr shrugged. _Seems logical enough, although Rendal might be the better judge._ "And you have the key to this caged stone?"

"It took several years and a lot of effort, but yes, we know the passphrase. The information we extract from our enemies always serves some purpose in the end."

The day was getting more and more interesting by the minute, Nurr thought, particularly when a Raider agent assigned in the autumnwood made a most spectacular entrance, by announcing loud enough for everyone in the Eldergleam Sanctuary to hear that Dragonlord Vylornar was no more.

Even Nurr was shocked speechless.

"The Firestorm?" he checked, when the proud proclaimer advanced to share the details with Stormbear. "The fourth of Alduin's first five? You're shitting me. That's impossible."

"It's true," the man insisted, then blanked at the sight of his questioner. "What the…?"

"It seems we have much to learn from each other," Kaarn remarked. "Come, sit, and tell us at once of all that you know of this." He was excited, and struggling to contain it behind the regal façade of a prince. Nurr hid his much better. The Nord overcame his surprise of seeing a Khajiit for the first time in his life and told the story which had swept across Skyrim, somehow outpacing even the freeriders, although perhaps the dragons themselves had delivered the grim tidings among their brethren and the tale leaked into the ears of commons wherever it was told. It was the most important news of the Fifth Era.

Although it was _how_ the Dragonlord had died that proved the point of greatest interest for Kaarn.

"Once a taker of hearts, and now a taker of lives," he mused. "She has grown bold indeed around the Dragonlords."

Nurr looked sharply at him. "What do you mean?"

"It means," said Kaarn, "that the Viper is more of an ally to us than we formerly anticipated." He nodded to the ebony coffer still in his hands, and Nurr understood. So not all rumours proved false; Ejollnor in _Hofkiin-Dovaar_ was as good as his word.

"She stole the stone for you."

"For the Guild she served," Kaarn corrected. "I didn't anticipate they also dealt in murder."

"Maybe they don't," said the messenger. "I heard about this news days ago, and when I learned the cause of the Dragonlord's death I immediately contacted those watching in Riften. They say she never returned, and the Guild's hopping in a way that suggests they never knew about this."

"No," frowned Nurr, "so there's no way to know that it was her. It could be an assassin that uses the same poison as her, made to kill, rather than humiliate and frighten."

Kaarn shook his head. "Whoever was responsible has succeeded in killing one of the most powerful beings in Tamriel—and so in turn, that person is powerful, very powerful. How many have tried to kill Vylornar, and how many have failed…and now _this_ …" His eyes were glowing, and Nurr wondered what mad thoughts were racing through the lad's mind. He shared none of them at once, but turned back to the messenger and demanded, "How long ago—what day did the Dragonlord die?"

"The first of Hearthfire, five days ago now."

"Omens upon omens," Kaarn brooded, shooting Nurr a sideways glance. The latter furrowed his brow and assumed a scornful expression, to which the young bear did not respond. "No doubt the dragon will have learned of this. Even deaf men will have heard these revelations. Retaliation, I fear, will be swift and merciless, and come from the entirety of the World-Eater's ranks." He stood so violently he nearly overturned his chair. "They are made defenceless from the dragons, and so they are to the wrath responding. This was the rally, to dragonkind, and now to us. We must respond before they do!"

"And how do you propose you do this?" Nurr rasped, standing less energetically. "You still have a dragon on your trail, and all the signs tell he's drawing closer. Any day now his dragonmen are going to find the path leading right into Eldergleam—and when they do, you can't hide. His men are all over the countryside."

"He must be killed, and soon," Kaarn scowled, turning restless. "We can't deploy our forces while he circles us like some ghastly vulture. Redouble your efforts, Nurrkha'jay. We cannot wait any longer."

Nurr shook his head. "Dragonhunts don't work like that. You can't rush it, no matter what's at your heels."

Kaarn's mask of frustration was exemplary. "For Skyrim's sake—"

"It _can't be done_ ," Nurr snapped, "and any Blade will tell you the same."

"Blade?" the messenger echoed dimly, gaping at him. " _You?_ "

Nurr clenched his fists. _Idiots upon idiots…control yourself, damn you…_ "Nothing else of any importance to say?" he snarled at the Nord who, quite taken aback, merely shook his head. "Good. Then get out." The man looked as if he were about to protest, but Kaarn must've nodded or done some form of silent assent, as he got up and left the tent without another word. Nurr then turned to Kaarn to present some hard truths. "You want the dragon dead and fast," he growled. "There's only one way you can find a dragon fast and that's by letting him find you. Gods only know what that will achieve; you dead, and this rebellion of yours in ruin."

Kaarn looked thoughtful. Then he suddenly turned away and seized up the ebony coffer again. "Yes—that's exactly how it must be done," he declared. "Why did I not see it earlier? All these days wasted and right away the answer was before us…the dragon must come to us."

Nurr laughed, more out of further disbelief than any actual scorn. "You've gone mad."

"Not mad, Nurrkha'jay, you yourself just told me the method." Kaarn pulled out the Rendingstone again, and it pulsed deep violet as it swung from its chain. "No dragon can resist the pull of this infamous magic. Torn from the sky, they are vulnerable, no matter how powerful they are. Clumsy, slow, dull-witted on the ground, deprived of the movement enabled them in the air…and the dragon will come here, drawn to me, and fly right into the trap. The advantage of surprise is ours; this is the last thing it will expect. And then—" Stormbear turned stony. "—you will demonstrate your ability as a slayer, and in doing so, your worth to our cause."

He was a boy, almost a man, who judged those around him by their actions. Nurr narrowed his eyes. "Don't presume I enjoy it, but when the time comes, I deliver nothing less than what I'm asked."

"Good." Kaarn slipped the stone around his neck. "Gather your strength. We ride out with the sun tomorrow."

That same night Nurr discovered what it was to, apparently, 'gather his strength' in a Raider camp. Everyone was in a good mood, heartily celebrating the death of one of the feared enforcers. Bottles of mead were passed around, women and men danced to rustic music, and…brawls ensued. Brawls upon brawls upon brawls. Nurr soon discovered why there were so many, as he wandered through the campsite avoiding various hurled objects and bodies; nobody was doing a thing to stop any of them.

At some point in the night he found himself beside Stal, who chortled and said, "Don't look so alarmed, Darky. Fistfights are a common enough occurrence at the right times. Nothing better to exhaust all the steam in our veins than a few good punches." Apparently brawling was an active part of Raider culture, to serve purposes such as letting off nerves, settling feuds, testing strength or relieving stress. It was a strange custom, but by the end of the night Nurr admitted to himself he hadn't seen such excellent or entertaining dogfights. Emilyn would have been shocked at such blatant displays of disorderly conduct, of which she'd banned from the Temple. She would have been beyond horrified if she ever learned of Nurr's contribution that same night.

He couldn't resist. He had to try them out. He regretted it almost at once. These Nords were very different to the Blades he'd left behind; every single one of them was like Rogghart, very strong, and always grinning. Nurr lost as often as he won, and only stopped when one dogfight left him hardly able to keep his feet. That was one of the bouts he won, though. He met the healers that night, and never had he met anyone with an exasperation to exceed his Grandmaster's in the days when he returned drunk from Eagle's Rest.

And when Nurr came to the following morning complete with a splitting headache, he immediately regretted the drinking contest he'd had with Stal.

The huge Nord held liquor like a keg. Nurr did his best, but just couldn't compete with how much mead Stal put in him. Thanks to his stubborn streak, he drank more than he'd ever drunk in one sitting, in his entire life—he couldn't even remember when he passed out, and briefly in his confusion couldn't remember even where he was. Not that that wasn't the first time that had happened; it had been several days before he'd stopped waking up in his tent, caught in a haze of vague confusion regarding his location. His room didn't look anything like his quarters in the Temple—and since when had the sleeping quarters had windows to let the sunlight through? Fortunately he remembered quickly…or unfortunately, given the plans Kaarn Stormbear had for him that day.

The splitting headache was made worse by a good deal of yelling going on outside.

Nurr groaned or growled, one of those, and seriously considered rolling over, shoving some of his bedding in his ears, and going right back to sleep…but he supposed that wasn't what a Blade was meant to do when he was woken with a cacophony of distress outside his tent. Muttering insensibly, Nurr pushed himself upright, vigorously rubbed his face and heavy eyelids, and braced himself for another day.

He'd barely picked himself up off the ground and started pulling his underthings on when the entrance to his tent flew back and Stalbreic ducked his shaggy head inside. "There's trouble," he simply said, and departed.

 _Trouble_ , Nurr thought dimly, though he was more impressed and annoyed at how fit and alert Stal appeared. Were Raiders immune to hangovers? He felt…he didn't even want to feel what he felt right now. Still fighting the headache, which was progressively growing worse, he climbed wearily into his armour. He entertained himself with possibilities while he fumbled with the latching. Perhaps a brawl had carried on into the morning—or evolved into something like a battle. Which, Nurr remembered, was what he might have to endure today, thanks to Kaarn's sudden martyr-minded impulsiveness. Bugger. This was _not_ the day to face a dragon…

He was getting distracted. What trouble? Waking up, dressed and armed, Nurr strode from his tent and the yelling grew louder.

Vaguely he heard the clashing of steel, but silence fell almost as soon as he stepped into the open. The commotion centred from the entrance to the sanctuary. He was on the other side. He sighed again and began to make his way there, his pace quickening as he detected the Stormbear's voice rising above the rest.

Something of import must have occurred to draw the young bear away from his almost endless war councils. Nurr was soon running, skipping the worn-in paths to weave off-road among the assemblage of tents and stacked supplies to halt on a bank overlooking the tunnel exit, sanctuary entrance.

The first thing he noticed immediately were bodies. Six of them, almost stacked on top of each other, dead by various axe wounds and one by an arrow. The fact that three were Argonians immediately certified the suspicion in Nurr's mind, long before Stal, in the thick of it, looked up at him and explained, "Dragonmen. They found us."

Two warriors were beside him, their axes freshly bloodied. There was a crowd fast forming at the scene of commotion. Kaarn was at the entrance with his own sword drawn and steady in his hand. Then he looked back at the dragonmen corpses. Nurr was impressed at how menacing the late teen looked, donned in his thunderous scowl.

"It was only a matter of time," he said. "But they dare to desecrate Kyne's sacred soil by taking the fight in Her shadow." He shook his head. "This will not go unpunished, although these men have already paid for their defilement."

"What do you intend to do with the bodies?" Nurr inquired.

Kaarn looked up. "You arrive at last." His tone was not welcoming. "I see that one of these traitors died by the bow." He nudged said corpse. "The arrow, however, did not come from you."

"Oh spare me, I'm meant to be a miracle worker now?" Nurr snapped. "I was on the other side of the camp. By the time I got here your men had already handled them."

"Our sentry was killed," Stormbear stated. "Agnelm didn't need to die."

Nurr shook his head. _Touching, but really quite useless right now._ "You can't save everyone, boy," he retorted. "Don't pity the dead, their troubles are over." He sprang down to land beside the prince. "Ours, however, are just beginning. This lot were scouts. The bulk of the enemy will be looking for them soon enough, and they'll follow the trail straight into Eldergleam. A good deal more of them are going to be treading on Kyne's sacred soil." He nodded downward. "What do you intend to do with the bodies? Chuck them in a ditch somewhere? Drag them out and leave them shamed and stripped bare in the wilderness? Throw them into one of those bloody steam pools? Whatever you want to do with the bodies, do it honourably, and do it properly. We don't want them following the scent and dragonmen never travel alone."

The lad's face was thunderous. "They abandoned their honour when they abandoned Tamriel, in favour of the dark dragon's twisted lies." Nonetheless he looked thoughtfully, not scornfully, down on the dead. "Strip the bodies," he ordered. "Reuse their weapons and armour. But have them buried in the copse outside the Eldergleam; they don't deserve to be laid to rest in this sanctuary of the old gods." Several of the soldiers around them got down to the dirty work right away. "And have Agnelm attended to," Kaarn concluded, and made for the tunnel. "Stal, fetch the men and horses; Nurrkha'jay, with me."

Nurr obeyed, relieved to discover that the intrusion of dragonmen had driven the worst of his headache out of awareness. He hoped it would last. If the dragon was near, and if it was what Nurr thought it was, he needed all his wits about him. "You mentioned men," he muttered, as he plodded up the tunnel after the Raider chieftain. "Here I thought your ploy meant making a martyr of yourself."

"Martyrs are pointless."

"Your uncle's the most famous in all Tamriel."

"I have no intention of meeting his end."

Kaarn spoke coldly, perhaps to mask his grief. Nurr knew the tone all too well, and cautioned himself against persisting.

The day beyond was strengthening. They scoped the land just outside the subterranean hideaway from the shelter of the tunnel's entrance, and saw no life among the pine copse. However, Nurr's ears pricked to the thrum of vast wings, which after a few moments of careful listening, he realized came from close by, perhaps half a mile or less. He pressed his head to the ground and after an even longer time made sense of a humming through the earth. "Their forces are massing across the tundra," he growled. "I'd bet you they've caught a scent. The hunt's drawing closer and it's on us."

"Not for long," the young bear promised. Finally Nurr spotted the glint of indigo at his throat, and growled softly.

"You can't expect that thing to save you."

"It's not going to save me. It's going to vanquish the predator."

"Don't put all your trust in that little Dread-tainted crystal." Nurr lashed his tail. "There's a lot, almost too much, that we don't know about the dragon. We don't even know if it's been exposed to the crystal's effects before. Dragons that have been are less susceptible to its magic—providing that its magic can even work with a bearer that isn't its intended original. Can you even _use_ the thing?"

"It will work," insisted Kaarn.

Nurr hissed furiously. _Brilliant. Just brilliant. Facing Alduin's lieutenant based on one of Kaarn's famous bloody gambles._ He stroked the fletching of his bow and brooded sullenly. _Rabble,_ he scowled. _I've been flung into this mess to sort this rabble of men who proclaim themselves the heroes their beloved homeland needs, led by a boy of a man too sure of himself, aware of old knowledge but naïve to the modern. No wonder Emilyn was certain any other she'd have sent would have failed. I don't even know if I can succeed myself, not against these odds…_

Perhaps she ought to have sent two—perhaps he ought to relay a message back to Sky Haven and demand an accomplice. Briefly he pictured Raegim at his side, but immediately he cast the idea from his mind. No, he would not dare bring the child into this folly, into open danger when she was far, very far, from readiness. But was the right his to demand another, a bladed Brother or Sister to tempt a similar fate? Now his mind went to Banviel, so close to death by the maw of the wounded but still volatile Red. If he'd been just a little later in sending his fatal arrow…

 _Alone,_ he frowned. It had to be done alone. That time he'd been more fortunate than in control, striking the dragon down. He'd been perfectly transcended then; but Raegim had brought him back, reminded him the value of life at a whole new level—he'd barely be able to think if he knew he had to protect. He'd risk missing his shot, and when the day came he missed…

Nurr closed his eyes. _If I return. If._

Stal arrived with Kaarn's demands in tow. "We're starting this, then?" he rumbled.

"Aye, that we are." Kaarn took his horse's reins and led it into the open. "Our plans have not changed."

"Oh?" said Nurr. "And what are our plans?"

Kaarn vaulted himself nimbly into the saddle of his pinto mount. "How they've always been for every dragonhunt we've had," he responded, somehow sounding all the more impressive on the back of his horse. "Draw the target away from its allies, battle it on equal terms, and end the hunt before our fortune turns on us." Shrewdly he cast Nurr a questioning look. "The Blades do it differently, I suppose."

"That we do. For one thing, we don't do it during the day." Nurr came cautiously into the sunlit open, his stonehold animal equally uncomfortable with the profound lack of swathing mist.

"Not all of us have your night eyes, my friend," Stal remarked, following with his gargantuan grey beast.

"For another, we also don't make active and notorious servants of the World-Eater our targets." Nurr clambered onto his horse and frowned sternly at the young man across from him. "And if we do, we plan for their deaths very, _very_ carefully—and even then, the risk is tremendous, and we do it under cover of darkness."

"The Blades may be accustomed to assassinating their dragons," intruded one of the men, emerging behind Stal and wearing something akin to a scornful expression, "but sons of Talos confront and defeat their enemies in the open and in clear view of the gods. There is no deceit or shadow involved."

Nurr curled his lip at him. "And how many 'sons of Talos' have died in the attempts?"

"How many Blades?" the impetuous Nord shot back.

Nurr snorted. "Less than your losses."

"Now, children, play nice." Stal drew up beside his godson. "And where the trap will be sprung?"

"Dragonrupt. Build the trail, commence the diversions, and lead the dragon to his death."

Clearly these words had been used before, and many times; it looked like Kaarn had called for the most experienced of his dragonhunt veterans, as the forty-odd that departed Eldergleam in twos and threes looked equal to perfectly transcended Blade dragonslayers. Nurr watched them gallop out into the wilderness, all taking different directions. He turned inquiringly to Stormbear. "Now I'm no more a dragon than you, but I'm pretty sure that from the air I could see anything moving across the rather bleak flats below, and riding in the exposed flats is about as dangerous as it gets."

"You've seen our land, Blade," said Kaarn, "but don't presume you know it half as well as we do. Each man you've seen ride out, he could navigate every crack and pool deprived of his sight. We know our land far better than those treacherous creatures ever could. Even dragons would have a hard time trying to locate a Raider in his element." He smiled.

Nurr didn't even bother trying to argue.

Eventually they rode out from the shelter of the pines, and cantered along a new route Nurr hadn't previously. He noticed it seemed to take them constantly out of range of the sun, somehow, despite the steam flats being almost devoid of trees. The dragon's roars sounded unbroken across the barrenness, seeming closer at every infrequent cry. It was much harder to track the screams when there were no chasms to channel and amplify its directions.

They checked their horses upon a rise that overlooked many miles of the land. The sun was quite high by then, and Nurr's sharp senses soon located their not-so-distant enemy. He hissed at the sight of smoke rising in smudged patches against the horizon. "So that's where they all are, finally getting the idea that you might be underground after all this time."

"Time they spent raking the land searching for us day and night," said Kaarn. "Eastmarch is a large land, volatile and alien to many who do not know it well. They are more familiar with forest and ice tundra, and patrols make easy pickings in the mountainside."

He gestured east of their standing point, where in the shadow of what looked like a small mountain fallen in on itself lay a large, circular depression that opened into a black pit. "That is Dragonrupt. It used to be a resting place of the monsters' bones; a burial mound that your predecessors had created long ago. Used to be, at least, until the World-Eater resurrected the long-deceased occupant. We stumbled across many of these empty cairns but this one quite spectacularly different, in that the cairn had been built directly over a steam vein. Alduin's ritual disturbed the forces sleeping below, and not long after the dragon's dead bones were fleshed and made living once more, a geyser blasted a hole right through the surface of the earth. During the first Ulfric Stormbear's time, we investigated the site. It opened up into a vast chasm beneath the tundra, which linked to a network of old steam passages in this area. We've been using such openings as Dragonrupt to draw our hunts beneath the surface, and so put the monsters' bones back under the earth."

"How do you draw them in?" inquired Nurr, noticing the flaw.

"With effort," replied Kaarn.

A horn sounded faintly across the flats, from the south. Immediately Stormbear sat to attention, and Nurr decided to follow the example. Silence followed at first, for several good minutes—then, another horn, closer than the last, matched with a familiar shrieking cry.

"The trail's being laid as we speak," Kaarn said. "My men will have, even in their small number, spread disarray among the dragonman camp. We are drawing the dragon away from its mortal slave army, rider by rider, in relay. Exciting it is crucial; we want it to treasure its pride over its common sense, which with dragons is almost certified when presenting it with the correct challenge."

A third horn sounded across the steaming prairie, and Nurr glimpsed the brute winging its way across the plains, a pale speck in the distance, before it rose skyward and vanished into the cloud cover. The muted echoes of its enraged cries haunted all horizons. "They're delaying it now," Kaarn observed. "They're giving the riders time to fall back and rearrange their positions to assist each other. We don't intend to present the beast with just a single target."

"Aren't you worried you're going to rouse every other dragon in the vicinity?" Nurr asked.

Kaarn shook his head. "A dragon's pride is a fierce thing; it likes to hunt alone, to claim all the glory for itself. The mortals it will use as a means to an end; they mean nothing to any immortal. Expendable sources of usefulness or food." His tone soured to that. "Besides, no other but this doggedly persistent one has been after me. If any freeflier wanted to participate in this hunt, they would have done so already, not begin now."

Nurr shrugged. "Remind me what you needed me for?"

Kaarn looked at him sharply. "Your experience far exceeds anyone's here. You know a dragon's weaknesses and you know its strengths. You have an intrinsic understanding of how they fight, how they act, how they think. We need that insight if we have any hope of succeeding against them."

"Right, then." _And, perhaps, to save a few more lives with this foreknowledge I offer._

A horn sounded. "The chase is restored," Stormbear murmured. "Talos be with them all."

They continued to Dragonrupt, where Nurr noticed it was indeed an old dragon burial mound evolved into a large dead geyser. He dismounted and ventured to the edge, and peered into the inky blackness below. He dimly heard a subterranean river gushing a spectacular distance down, but saw a shelf of stone a mere hundred foot from the surface where he stood. The walls that supported the open tundra above it were remarkably jagged, cracked and manipulated into fascinating spires, no doubt from the steam that once blooded this very large underground vein. They clustered beneath the shattered pit mouth like teeth.

"There is a river below," Kaarn nodded, when Nurr asked. "We dispose of any evidence of a fight in it. The river winds deeper and deeper into the earth, nobody's sure where it ends—perhaps it winds all the way to the Sea of Ghosts. It's broad and deep, I've seen it for myself. This vein is dead of any natural dangers; it's a safe place to dispose of our enemies in relative secret."

"Alduin will still notice if his lieutenant is butchered here in the land of rebellion," Nurr muttered.

"So he will," Kaarn responded. "But he'll never find the body. The bones flow so deep into the earth that even the Renderer of Rebirth can't resurrect his fallen minions."

With this enchanting epitaph in mind, Nurr descended into the ground. There was a safer entrance down to the interior of Dragonrupt, which the Raiders had carved for themselves. The cavern was so large it was like being in Eldergleam again, ceilings of stone and all that, although it was a good deal more devoid of life. The shelf of stone served as a safely wide road, but the edge dropped away in the form of a steep cliff, down to the fathoms-deep river which Nurr could only hear. He wondered how far down it went, how deep and cold the water was.

They made for the rupture where daylight poured through in a thick ray. The floor was rippled and quite uneven, scarred with the struggles of this recent Era, but it swelled much more broadly into an almost arena-like circle. Its edges still descended sharply into the unseen river, but it had an almost walled quality to it; once there might have been, to contain the source of the steam. Nurr was no expert, but he had to think of something, all these marvelous mutated spires of solid rock had to have a story of their own.

"So how do you intend to bring the beast down here?" he asked, voice rebounding a hundred times through the big empty space.

Kaarn gestured to a heap of twisted metal and splintered wood. "Our last hunt did not end well. The dragon was more powerful than we had expected of its breed, and fought bitterly, destroying many of our turrets. We have not had the opportunity to repair them. Only one turret remains able to work." It was on the other side of the chamber, nestled halfway up the wall in a collection of the stone teeth. "With that, and the Rendingstone…"

Nurr didn't listen to the rest. He hurried to this turret, scaled the walls and investigated the contraption more closely. It was crude in comparison to the ones back in Sky Haven, a rough and hasty assemblage of golden metal—most likely adapted from a Dwemer crossbow brought into the chamber. He ran his fingers over the worn lever handle and gave it a small experimental tug. It required someone of great strength to release it, in order to release the net. Nurr did not think it was him. He climbed back down just as more horses came charging the Dragonrupt road, Stal heading the way with five breathless men behind him. "It's headed this way," the big Nord announced.

"Into positions," Kaarn shouted. Nurr spotted weapons in the men's hands, watched them arrange themselves in formation across the chamber. The three soldiers stood in the dark corners of the broad floor. The bowmen made for the turret. Kaarn and Stal stayed where they were, just out of the light streaming in from the shattered ceiling above, while their horses drifted back the length of the chamber as though they knew what was coming.

Nurr would have liked to immediately make himself disappear, to await the dragon's arrival, but unfortunately he had experience of Revered dragons which he sincerely doubted these Nords did. If they did, they wouldn't be as confident as they were in this underground chasm. He'd killed only one before, but one was enough. He knew their weak points, presented by the others in his particular lair raiding group as they wore the creature down long enough to get his bead. He knew their arsenal of Shouts, to some extent, as there really was no certain prediction with any of these creatures. He also knew that they could do things a lot of dragons wouldn't normally dare to do. _It is not going to be disadvantaged beneath the sky. It will fight no less dangerously underground than above it._ His grip on his bow tightened, and he kept his senses alert. Dragons made a good cure to morning hangovers, his headache was hardly paining him anymore.

Somewhere above came the blast of a horn, leading the surely enraged beast on.

"If it is what I think it is," rasped Nurr, "then time your attacks, and synchronize them with the releases of its Thu'um. Revered have no teeth to tear your armour to splinters, but their jaws can still crush bone; nonetheless they'll rely on their natural gifts in the fight. Strike in the chinks of their armour. Your best bet is to attack the spine; their scales all flow one way and they have no spikes protecting their backbones. Penetrate where the scales meet and your strike, with enough force, will carry right down to the bones beneath. Their wings aside, bother with no flesh wounds. Only in number will they have any effect."

Another horn sounded above. Nurr could hear the distant hum of the creature's wings.

"Providing it doesn't take your bait?" he demanded. Best to consider all possibilities, after all.

"It will." Kaarn fingered the dragonjewel. "It's been hunting me for a long time. It'll want to end this quickly. It must be anxious to please its master."

The wingclaps were swelling in volume. Nurr's ears flattened. He drew an arrow.

"Steady, steady," Stal murmured, perhaps to the men across from him. A few muttered swift prayers to their gods before becoming perfectly still, statues of anticipation awaiting the arrival of the god-like beast. Nurr felt nothing, thought of nothing else but the blueness of the eyes of the last Revered he'd struck down. They also had narrow optic tubes, but since the dragons were larger than Bloods, it was made somewhat easier to strike them dead through their soul windows.

It was almost upon them now. Almost. Just a few more seconds, and its shadow would darken the chamber.

The seconds ticked by.

No shadow came.

Nurr frowned in bewilderment; he couldn't hear its wings anymore. _What is this?_

He strode calmly into the daylight and gazed at the sky above, senses afire. They detected nothing dragon-like. It was as if it had vanished into the air. It hadn't landed, they weren't exactly silent leavers of flight, and underground they'd have felt the tremor of its landing—it had been that close, and now it was gone, disappeared, even.

The spell of fear was broken. The men came out of hiding, exchanging looks of confusion. "That's odd," Stal muttered. "Never happened before…"

Nurr looked pointedly at Kaarn. "He didn't take your bait."

"Apparently not." At least the boy didn't beat around the bush denying his mistakes. "But I don't think it's just given up. It has no reason to give up, only that we're underground…but that wouldn't be enough to deter the creature." _Least of all a Revered,_ Nurr added to himself. "I don't think this is over," Kaarn growled. "Be on your guard. It will come back to turn the command of surprise."

Nurr didn't like the continued quiet. Dragons were brutal and merciless, but they were intelligent and cunning, more than most tended to give them credit for. He moved back out of the sunlight, wishing he had Lio or Screema with him, both might know what had happened. He was still baffled as to how the brute had simply managed to 'disappear'. Even if it was moving away, he still should have been able to hear its wings across the open wilderness. It had been a storm of increasing sound, and then suddenly perfect silence, so perfect it evaded a Khajiit's ears. He doubted it to be natural ability at once. Had it cast magic upon itself? Was there a Shout for instant silence?

No…but there was a Shout…and a Revered would be more than capable of knowing it, _especially_ one of Alduin's inner circle…

As though in response, he thought he heard, back down the chamber, a very distant splash.

Nurr cursed himself, attracted Kaarn's attention, and hissed, "Make no sound. It's well aware where we are." Then, though his every instinct screamed for him to go back, he advanced towards the rim of the cliff and knelt, angling his senses down at the river below. _The only known breed of dragon that can swim…_ and if he was right, if the beast had used an ethereal Shout upon itself long enough to locate access to this subterranean waterway…if it was using it right now to swim under their feet and come rearing up already inside to shock its presumed hunters into disarray…

He thought he heard them muttering behind him, and swore again. Sound rebounded too easily in here. _If they want it to be the death of them, then let it be so,_ he growled to himself. It was then, or a little after, that he felt a shift in the otherwise undisturbed flow of the river.

Then the water churned, in a very un-river-like way.

Nurr sprang back in alarm and bellowed a warning. The river exploded. Two or three seconds passed in a sense of absolute anticlimactic stillness, before the dragon cleared the rim of the cliff and rose grandly above them, water streaming in rivulets from its violent orange-blue skin. One look and Nurr knew at once it was the Revered he'd thought it to be. That was why he wasn't shocked stupid by its appearance. The Nords, meanwhile, panicked.

Several things happened at once.

Kaarn darted forward, draconic falling rapidly from his lips and his crystal brandished before him; the bowmen twisted the turret around bawling for it to fire, and the net was airborne and tangled around the creature's talons; and the dragon, in wrath, swung its head upon the turret, rumbled three words, and expelled a burst of burning silver.

At least, that was Nurr's first impression; but he'd seen that the beast had Shouted _steam_ at its attackers.

His second impression; it later came to him that the Revered had simply scooped up a mouthful of water and used its Fire Breath Shout. Instant burst of steam. Instant death for the helpless bowmen who were boiled alive, their screams resonating terribly through the darkness. It was just after this had happened that purple-blue light flooded the chasm of Dragonrupt and the Revered emitted a shocked howl. It resisted for a few seconds, and then came crashing down so hard that a great cloud of dust was thrown up by its desperate wings wreathed in whatever infamous energies the Rendingstone had contained. The force of its impact threw everyone off their feet, sideways and everything. Nurr too fell, but he recovered quickly, and took advantage of the confusion to disappear himself.

The Revered struggled to its feet, which it soon revealed it couldn't do, as the net was bound very tightly around its twisted talons. It continued to stumble and sag onto one side, fighting to free its bound claws as it spat its continued frustration. "Steady, steady," Stalbreic cautioned, as he and the remaining men carefully arranged themselves at safe distances from the spitting creature. The dragon glowered thunderously at them all and drew itself upright, assuming an imperious posture.

" _Qolor mal joor muz_ ," it hissed. "You are all worthy enemies of mine." Its ice-blue orbs landed upon Kaarn Stormbear, who advanced fearlessly upon it, and it cackled. " _Kodaav do jul, uv sen!_ I was sent to hunt a man of traitor blood, not a child that reversed the game. _Kiird ahst inhus?_ Playing at mastery, _mal sen?_ " It had found the pendant gleaming under Kaarn's throat. "A worthy player indeed," the dragon laughed, as though to disguise its increase in caution. "But the game ends today. _Alduin fent saraan nid zuk._ Your blood he craves, your blood he shall have."

It was struggling with the indigo energies that bound it, struggling furiously at that, but allowed no sign of it to show in its silken speech.

"What do you call yourself, _mal sen?_ " the dragon inquired. "You have proven yourself worthy of presenting to me your _faan_ , what it is that men call you."

"You already know it," Kaarn challenged.

" _Geh, do rahlo zu'u dreh_ ," the Revered dismissed, "but I'd still have it from you, _duziir lir_."

"Stormbear."

" _Koraavsestrun…geh,_ that is what they call you. And they shall know that it was I, Zoornahldir, loyal soldier of my lord Alduin, who saw the end to the heathen maggots." The Revered curled its scaled lips. "You have wasted enough of my time. Now let us end this."

"Yes," agreed Kaarn, "let's."

Zoornahldir opened his mouth to Shout, only to recoil a scream of agony as Kaarn's axe left his hand and lodged itself with terrifying strength into the dragon's jowls, nearly tearing jaw from skull. Immediately the Nords converged upon him with war cries that surely resounded to Sovngarde.

Nurr was certain they were wondering where he was, why the famous Blade slayer was missing out on all the fun of the melee. He realized he hadn't told them about his role when confronting the brutes, and blamed the headache for that. Maybe they thought he was a traitor after all, that he'd deserted them and left them to their fate of fighting the Revered. True Nords never backed down, they often liked to say, in challenge to the fact that he wasn't a Nord. For precisely this reason; Nurr was certain if he tried to squall with a dragon in a conflict like that, with only his bow and Fusozay on or in hand, he'd be torn to pieces. Gelwin just hadn't trained him for that.

He climbed among the rocky fangs overlooking the chamber below, moving soundlessly from location to location, studying the creature. Zoornahldir…for some reason he thought he'd heard the name before…Now, however, was not the time to think of that. He had to realize that Zoornahldir moved his head around a lot, even when he was still, cocking it when he prepared to attack, and snapping it forward and back like a striking snake. When he Shouted, a tremor ran through the whole of him, quivering the webbed quills that lined him. He was fast and nimble as his Blood cousins, but viciously strong, proven when he snatched a warrior in his toothless maw and snapped him clean in two. No respect for the dead either, when he flung the remains across the battleground in a spray of guts and blood, causing the other warriors to recoil in dismay. Nurr grimaced himself. That wasn't a pretty sight.

Then the dragon was unbound from the Rendingstone, its magic wearing away; he reared with whirling wings and pushed himself upward, blood spilling freely from the ghastly wound in his jaw. Kaarn's hand went to the pendant, and Zoornahldir turned upon him with the Shout forming rapidly in his throat. Stal bellowed and hurled both him and Kaarn out of the way of the mortal stream of ice that otherwise would have taken the young bear's life.

Nurr realized something new. _I said it couldn't breathe fire, only ice, the frost burns I saw in Eldergleam told the tale…but how could it have sprayed steam without fire to heat it? Could it breathe both after all? Then why only use one kind against men? Unless…_ He shook his head at the cleverness of that. _To make them underestimate him. Even me, for all my forethoughts and caution. Very well played…_

Zoornahldir used the opportunity of the disarray below to finally tear the netting from around his talons, freeing his monstrous claws for use. He couldn't stay airborne for long, he was simply too large to fly in the chamber. Instead he pounced and caught an unaware Nord under him. The man was eviscerated before Zoornahldir seized the mortally wounded warrior and, still alive and screaming, swallowed him whole, torn armour and all.

Nurr remembered where he'd heard the name before. _Rogghart's monster that ate his mother…_

"Haengyr!" Kaarn cried, horrified. Then Stal came charging out of nowhere like a frenzied bull and drove his blade deep into the dragon's shoulder—so deep, in fact, even Nurr heard the crunch of its normally impenetrable bone. Mingled with the rest of Stal's witnessed accomplishments, from that moment on Nurr held only the deepest respect for that man.

Zoornahldir's agonized shriek was the greatest they'd drawn from him yet. Stal wrenched the sword free and ducked away, as his last warrior thrust his weapon hewed at the dragon's leg before retreating to safety. He tried to take flight, but Kaarn spoke again and the indigo energies lashed out upon the wounded dragon, once more binding him to the ground.

Nurr's arrow was out. He climbed a peak overlooking the battle and set it to the string. He had his bead—now all he needed was a good clear shot at the eye. Fortunately for him, it seemed Zoornahldir was again in a talkative mood.

"You should know, _nizah kodiik_ , that the _kroz lu_ works only so many times upon a _dovah_ ," he snarled at Kaarn. "You took me by surprise before. I had not expected to feel the rending magic upon my scales again. However, now that I am reminded of it…" Then he rose and snapped his wings, and to the astonishment of all, the magic yielded and retreated. "I served my time under the humiliation of bearing a mortal upon my shoulders," he roared. "Never again will the rend take me!"

Then the Shout tore from his lips. " _GAAN LAH HAAS!_ "

And there it was—the purple light that sucked life from its victims. Kaarn and Stal retreated but the last warrior was not so fortunate; he was struck, and died almost at once—Zoornahldir was huge and ancient, and his hunger for life was terrible and endless. The Nord plunged dead to the floor. The backlash of the release of such deathly energy struck Nurr from afar, and he recoiled shivering. The dragon was directly under him now. Kaarn and Stal had taken shelter once again, and didn't emerge. Wisely, perhaps, they were realizing that the situation was out of their hands.

Zoornahldir sensed that his victory was close. " _Kolos hi, dii nikriinne?_ " he mocked. "Why do you hide? Skulk in the shadows like rats? Do I smell your fear? Do I taste your despair?" He prowled among the jagged stones, his talons scratching long bloodied scars upon the floor. " _Luft zey ahrk dir voth zin._ You are a brave and proud people, I'm certain, like all I've eaten. Prove it to me now. Or must I hunt you down like rats? _Meyus joor muz._ Do you think I need my eyes to see where you hide? No life escapes me. _LAAS_."

The air shuddered briefly, and Nurr suddenly felt exposed. The dragon moved his head slowly, scanning his surroundings. Then his eyes rested upon a part of the rocks that seemed no different from any other. Nurr moved to look; Zoornahldir was closing in upon them, rattling his breath. There was no mistake in the frigid blue stare; he'd found Kaarn and Stal. Nurr set his arrow and drew back, to strike the dragon dead while he was absorbed.

And Zoornahldir stopped. His nostrils flared, his quills quivered; and then he looked up.

Nurr understood what had happened, and what was going to happen. He dropped his arrow and ran for his life, and even then, he was nearly too late.

" _FUS RO DAH!_ "

Nurr didn't know the finer points of what followed, only that there was a storm and he was caught in the thick of it, a tempest of shattered stone that crumbled in his wake and under his feet, making him lose his footing and fall, only to land again, so heavily that the breath was knocked out of him, and shards rained down on him. One struck him in the head and almost threw him unconscious, or off the ledge now supporting him. He realized also that his bow had left his hands, through the dizzying haze and a strange feeling going through him, like he couldn't breathe or move.

 _Get up._ Reality cracked through his stunned stupor. _Get up or you die. Get up._

He heard Zoornahldir coming for him, rearing on his hind legs to reach for the cliffs above his scaled head. Nurr shoved debris off him and promptly spotted his bow, snagged on one of the rocky teeth well out of reach. _Well, fuck me,_ he snapped at himself, more angry than afraid, and reassured of what limbs he did and didn't have, he turned to reclaim his weapon.

Only he heard the dragon draw breath again beneath him, felt the stones tremble in dread of the onslaught to come. Nurr found himself running, or jumping, or climbing—one of those—in the opposite of his intended direction. He was slower in his hesitance, and when the explosion of force struck his wake again, it came close to clipping him, certainly disorientating him far more violently than before. He yelled as he felt himself tumbling down to the ground which, he suddenly realized, was quite far below him; then his hand caught on something, a jut of yet-unbroken rock, and he tightened his grip and broke his fall, clinging breathlessly on a spur of stone while dangling above certain death.

Nurr twisted around, fighting for purchase with his other limbs. Zoornahldir positioned himself below him, blinking in a manner of surprised delight. " _Aan Kaaz_ ," he rumbled, " _ahrk het zu'u lor pah lost saluk wah Alduin._ " Then he laughed. "My eyes deceive me not—what a worthy offering, for even I tire of the taste of men."

Nurr swayed. _Don't pay attention to that,_ he thought, although for now the blood was rushing so hard in his ears he could barely hear anything else…ah, a handhold, and his foot caught on something that supported him. He could at least stop swinging like an idiot now.

"Come down, little kitten," the dragon sneered. "Come down. Perhaps I'll make it quick."

Nurr could feel his fingers slipping, and directly below him was nothing else he could grab hold of. Zoornahldir paced under him like some monstrous wolf, awaiting the inevitable. Nurr simply could not stay like this—and if the dragon became impatient, there was always his Voice, and Nurr was helpless where he hung, unable to move anywhere but to fall into the waiting jaws. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

"Why do you resist?" Zoornahldir questioned. " _Zu'u los dinok ofan laas._ I am death given life—and you are life doomed to die. Do not escape the inevitable. It is coming for you, my bold little kitten. _Dreh ni faas nii. Dreh ni krif nii._ "

Then Nurr saw his bow, still hanging on its precipice. Oddly enough, he looked at it and against all the other things to think, he thought, _I could reach that._ It would mean doing the most stupid thing he'd ever done in his entire life, but the dragon did have a point; he wouldn't have much more of a life if he just hung here trying and failing to resist the otherwise inevitable. His grip was slipping. He tried to tighten it, just for a short while, just for long enough to rearrange his posture, to find a grip for both his feet, something to push off…

He took no notice of the creature stirring under him, collecting his strength, drawing his energy for a Shout, a lunge to bite him in two, an attack nonetheless; he saw his destination and thought it might as well have been one of Gelwin's drills—he'd taught Nurr to know his weapon, to treat it as no more than an extension of his body with an admirable penetrating reach. It was a part of him, and no matter how he was positioned, he would shoot consistently, accurately, swiftly. His life one day might depend on it. His life _did_ depend on it.

His fingers could hold on no longer. The dragon lunged. Nurr leapt.

It was strange. He felt nothing, nothing at all. If he'd been hurt the pain wasn't important enough to distract him. If he was frightened the fear wasn't profound enough to numb him. His world had shrunken to his bow. Nurr accepted calmly that if he did not reach it, if he did not take it in his hands, then his world was ended. Perhaps this was a new level of transcendence he'd never understood before; perhaps it was something else entirely. He felt nothing, within or without, only his body as he hurtled through the air with his hand outstretched, as his bow drew closer and closer. Perhaps, he thought, this was what it meant to fly. Nothing and no one meant anything anymore.

But as his hand closed around the hilt of the bow, Nurr remembered; he was not winged, he could not fly. His natural agility befitting his people had propelled him across the chamber, but the earth would claim him again, and it was claiming him now, as he began to fall.

Nurr twisted in the air; there was already an arrow in his fingers, and he knew what must be done. It was set to the string of his bow, and the bowstring was at his ear, and he was gazing down the shaft at the dragon Zoornahldir as the orange beast came roaring round, recovering from his missed attack. He'd left himself vulnerable, exposed, and his blue eyes were open, very widely at that. Nurr looked into them and thought back to his training sessions, both as Gelwin's apprentice and Raegim's mentor. _Comfortable with deliberate disorientated recovery,_ he intoned, as he plummeted with his back to the floor and his arrow aimed at the dragon's eye above.

He released, and the arrow flew true. _You only need one._

Zoornahldir's responding scream was of death.

 _Death._ Nurr was still falling, and from a mortal height. This was when reality finally closed in; he was hurting, somewhere in his body, that still wasn't important; and he was afraid, very much so, because he was scared it was going to hurt when he smashed into the ground and felt all the bones in him shatter like glass. He opened his mouth to yell.

And again the breath was rudely flung out of his lungs, as a huge webbed tail smacked him so hard he felt he'd been torn in two.

He fell against something much softer, something that yielded sternly but enough by his weight that Nurr recovered quickly. Zoornahldir was twisting and thrashing in his final throes, and by some miracle had scooped his bane out of death's clutches. Nurr acted quickly, skidding down the dragon's flailing wing—the ground came nearer—and then the wing flung out but he was ready for it. He allowed his body to take to the air once again, but he was in command. His race's instincts took over and he no longer needed to think. He twisted around, judged the floor's distance, and prepared himself accordingly to land on his feet, knees bent to cushion his weight, his free hand down in front of him and his tail outstretched behind him to provide stability.

Zoornahldir finally succumbed to the inevitable outcome of his mortal wound; a final rattle in his throat, and the dragon thundered to earth, and as though to make some statement, his head landed squarely in front of Nurr, tilted with the arrow-eye topside.

All this was executed as though he'd practiced it all his life.

The dust was settling, and silence lasted. Nurr stiffly got to his knees; the adrenalized instinct had passed now, and his weary conscious had to take over. He became aware of a profoundly sharp pain under his armour and breathing was a nuisance, since inhaling seemed to keep setting the agony off. It felt like his whole ribcage had collapsed, although he reasoned if that were true he'd probably be dead, so just a broken individual rib or two. His knees were _aching_ , as was the rest of him, but especially his legs, and his gauntlets had been ruined somewhat, his hands cut and grazed upon catching the spur of stone that had saved his life before he'd saved it himself. His head was hurting outside and in, and he could feel something sticky matting his fur on the side a bit of falling stone had near struck him senseless.

He stumped over to Zoornahldir's head and wrenched the arrow from its skull with an accompanying _squelch_ and a small spray of black. "Bloody dragon," he muttered, discarding the arrow, which he'd never shoot again. Somehow this angered him more than anything else the Revered had done to him or anyone else that day.

Kaarn and Stal emerged quietly into the new calm, and Nurr turned to look at them, wheezing like an elder. _I must look like shit_ , he thought. _Feel like shit for sure._ He decided not to move, for fear of falling over, his legs felt oddly brittle under him.

He waited for someone to start the post-dragon-death conversation. Kaarn wasted no time, of course. "I think," he said softly, "that Emilyn sent the right man."

Nurr's responding snort wasn't wholly sarcastic.

"What the hell were you doing up there, you bloody fool?" Stal demanded.

"Ghosting."

"What?"

"Ghosting." Nurr was too tired to argue. "That's my role in every hunt and raid. I disappear, gain a sense of the enemy, and then strike. I only need to once, when enough time is given for me to get into a dragon's head." He looked at his kill with a disgusted expression. "Only that method's now next to obsolete, once Alduin catches wind of this. I'm no ghost anymore."

"No," Kaarn agreed, and rested a solemn hand upon Nurr's plated shoulder. "You are a brother."

The last thing Nurr would have expected to feel to this was pride. Here he thought he was done with the whole stupid idea, but something had changed, in him, in them, _something._ Who would've thought it'd taken a moment like _that_ to kindle it?

So he sent Kaarn a response along the lines of an approving nod and rasped, "If you say so. Call me Nurr, then. That's what my brothers do."

"Aye to that," Stal boomed, grinning through his tangled beard. "Your name's more of a mouthful than mine!"

Then the three of them looked at each other, and unspoken they decided that nothing more needed to be said.

 **d|b**


	54. XXXXXIII - Dragonbane

**d|b**

 **-Viper-**

One thing seemed certain; Viper's name would go down in history.

As a thief? Perhaps; but as an assassin, it was certain.

The ceremony was to take place that night, when the tenth of Hearthfire morphed into the eleventh, when the stars would quake to the shadow turning into darkness, when the moons would slide in their uncertainty of the new soul, the altered heart, that strode beneath its influence.

Viper would keep her name for herself, as a name that only her Brothers and Sisters would share, but it would not become the name that the world would know her as. Even she was not sure, but her mask would become her calling card, and it would become her identity. The mask's name would be her own whenever she departed Sanctuary. It would be her face the world would remember her by.

Her virgin kill lingered bold and plain in her mind. Of all the kills to follow, she would never forget this one. One day, it would be a tale she would tell to new members of her Family, to strengthen them with her experiences. One day that would come sooner than she thought. Sanctuary was found beneath the ice but Viper was not cold. Her blood was colder and would remain that way until the day that she herself welcomed the peace of oblivion.

One day, not this day, or night, or for many to follow.

They'd remember her name, of course. She had no intention of changing her poison any more than she had. It would remain her deadly signature, but in regard to it they'd whisper a new name until the end of time. It might come naturally to the people. It might be spread in whispered rumours. It would be known by all before the year was out. Viper knew that the Listener had great things in store for her, for she alone had succeeded where countless before her had failed.

Every Dragonlord had been marked by the Night Mother, their souls beckoned by the Dread Father. After so long, the Brotherhood had fulfilled one of their contracts at last.

She returned to find names being presented to her, the Family revealed in a way she'd never known before. Babette, the vampiric alchemist, applauded her efforts, begged to learn the poison for herself, and praised her for locating an ample supply of taproot on their way home. Elyseth, who continued to worship the Anticipations of the Tribunal, proclaimed his immense respect for her claiming the life of a Dragonlord, of all to make and mark as her first; she was certain to rise high in the ranks of the Brotherhood for such a worthy soul to send to the Void. There were so many others, so many faces tied to so many masks, but Viper learned them all and kindled many friendships upon her return, feeling more at home than she had ever in her life.

It was Nevada she was keen to see most of all. Though the Nord seemed initially more concerned for her horse than for her new Sister—"You didn't scratch him, did you?"—it was apparent that Nevada thought highly of Viper's success. "You'll be an excellent addition to the Brotherhood," she proclaimed, wearing her lopsided grin. "I didn't just drag some dumb thief out of the cold cells with me."

Viper smiled. "Seems not," she agreed.

A few days trickled by, but not many. Viper wondered why she hadn't been initiated at once, until she learned that masks were being made, imbued with enchantments and designs being crafted. Nevada entertained Viper over those days with an exchange of stories, which the former thief was keen to nurture her newfound love for. She also learned of Nevada's former identity outside the Sanctuary; that when the people wished for her services, they prayed for Winterhand.

"You could still be her," Viper said, gazing thoughtfully at the mask resting idle between Nevada's fingers. The design was two silver diamonds outlined in bold crimson positioned on top of each other, the second smaller than the first, upon the mask's right cheek. The left was imprinted with a red silhouette of a complex snowflake, while the rest of the mask was black. It was a beautiful profile.

But Nevada shook her head and put the mask aside. "Winterhand is dead," she said. "The cold of Cadmir ended her. I cannot be her any more, for she does not reflect who I am, and the people will soon forget her. She was insignificant, and will not go down in history." She gestured to her horrifically maimed face and continued grimly, "Another slipped back into Sithis's hands, meanwhile; a daughter changed, a daughter still willing to serve the Void."

Viper cottoned on. "And who is she?"

Nevada's eye glittered. "Half Moon."

The name more than suited. Later that same day Nevada received her new identity. The face was divided into two equal halves. The right side of the mask was only black. The left side was only crimson, but the eye was evenly encircled in silver. Half of red Masser, and all of white Secunda. "Even the Listener agreed that it was time for a change," Nevada smiled, examining her profile with pride. "I will not regain what I have lost from Cadmir but I will gain so much more than ever I had…Skyrim shall know the infamy of this new assassin. She thirsts for dragon blood just as fiercely as the serpent."

"Do you think that's what I'll be named?"

"You were baptized in blood; I'm certain your name will come from that."

The Maskmaker, a secretive fellow whom Viper had not met before, looked on; he was almost blind from extreme age, but his hands remained as dexterous as a younger man's. "It suits, I hope?"

"It suits," Nevada responded.

"Good, good." The Maskmaker turned smiling to Viper. "Yours will be done very soon. The Listener herself will present it to you, but I already know what you were named." He winked a rheumy eye. "Silence I must speak of it until then."

Viper frowned. "Why not now?"

"I don't want to spoil the fun, now do I?" He chuckled and returned to his station.

It was to be the night to follow, but Viper did not yet know it. The following day she spent trying to divine a new rumour as a truth or a lie; that a contract of extreme significance was to be gifted to their new Sister. The Night Mother herself had commanded it.

"Even if it is for me," Viper protested to her Brother Elyseth, "I can't take it. I don't believe in the Night Mother."

"Regardless if you think yourself worthy of it or not, the Listener is the one who selects the one to see the contract through," he answered evenly. "Trust in her word if not the Night Mother's, and await. I feel the ceremony is to take place tonight. I have also heard that your new attire is nearing its completion. This night it shall truly begin."

"What will begin?"

"Who knows? The life of a new assassin, born from the ruin of a dead thief; the unravelling of the fragile world at last; the path to her own certain death." Elyseth shook his head. "One can never know for certain. The death of ourselves is a fate that remains unknown; but the death of others, we ourselves make certain. That is who we are, and who you have now become, dear Sister."

 _What I have now become,_ Viper intoned. Yes, she had come far, very far, from what she had been. _The thief Cenrin sent for the dragonjewel is dead and lost. She is a shelled stranger to me now, even though we share our names._ The thought wasn't lonely at all. She was where she had always meant to be. But she had to be sure that she could see this through.

She approached the Listener and sought council with her once more.

"I must know if it is done, then. If what I was I am no longer."

"It is certain, child. The path is clear to you."

"Not yet, it isn't. Is it true, this task you promise me?"

"Yes. I will not lie. It is true, I have something I intend you to see through. The Night Mother has blessed you with ability that is best used pursuing a certain kind of prey. No common cutthroat she intends you to be, but something more; you will be a hand that delivers darkness to creatures of light; you will bring night to the flame. It will be tonight that the birth of the undoing commences. You are the centre, my Sister."

"Centre of what?"

The Listener closed her eyes. "Even I do not know. Your fate is beyond my power in such a way that it intrigues me. The Night Mother does not share all her secrets to her faithful children; she must retain some herself, and she still has so many secrets she does not yet choose to impart. Your end, your successes, your losses and gains and experiences; she has not told me anything of them. All that is certain is the purpose."

"What is my purpose?" Viper dared to ask.

To this, the Listener slipped her finger beneath Viper's chin and tilted her head up, so they looked directly into each other's different stares, fire-bright to viridescent. "The first kill is never made by the will of the Night Mother," she murmured. "It is not influenced by her or Sithis. Fate tugs the soul strings of all those with a mind to know it; and Vylornar's death was clear. There is no mistake and all the world is aware of it. He died by your hand, your fatal kiss; you did not take his life but give him darkness, and in turn have promised darkness to all like him, such was the manner."

 _All like him,_ Viper thought, and then asked, "Am I to hunt the remaining Dragonlords, then?"

"Perhaps." The Listener blinked. "Perhaps to bring about the success of the task promised you, the lives of others you shall take. It is clear you possess luck around the shadow-hearted unlike any I have ever seen. You are what I need, what _she_ needs. I know you shall deliver."

"I don't believe in the Night Mother." Viper pulled away. "I can't give to what does not exist in my mind." Her awareness darted to the coffin, standing solemnly and silently in the centre of the chamber.

"You are a Sister of the Family now," said the Listener, "and the Five Tenets I know you have come to understand very well."

Viper nodded.

"What is the third tenet?"

"Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis." Then Viper understood. "This is your order, then. This task you will bequeath me with, whatever it might be." The Listener nodded. "I will not serve it in the Night Mother's name unless it is of my own personal choosing—but in your name, under your command…that I can do." It was like the thief serving under the word of her Guildmaster, only the Listener, bound by the tenets, would never dare to betray her Family. Greed did not rule these assassins' hearts.

"You have learned well," the Listener smiled.

"Not well enough," Viper murmured, struck again with uncertainty. "The first Tenet speaks to never dishonour the Night Mother…and I dishonour her by refusing to believe in her."

"I understand your hesitation, but rest assured, you do not dishonour her. Not all children must love their parents. To honour the Night Mother, she asks that you honour the contract, for all pass from her lips and then from mine. Honour this contract, and you honour her, and the Wrath of Sithis you shall not endure."

Viper nodded. "Whatever it might be…"

"You shall do, I know. Go now and rest, my Sister. You will need it."

Viper obeyed, and went and rested the day away. At night, she found the Family gathering for the ceremony. She learned the Maskmaker had finished constructing her new apparel, and that her Brothers and Sisters were gathering. A room of ritual she discovered, and it was where she needed to go, but not yet. There was still a shred of time before the coronation of a new child of Sithis.

Viper spent it in the stables with Nevada, grooming Endurance, and reflecting.

"Skyrim is not the same as I once knew it," she said, as she untangled the horse's shaggy hair with a comb. "Nor am I. I don't feel the same. I don't think I shall ever be what I was. I never knew losing one's innocence to the darkness could change one so."

"You have been reshaped," said Nevada simply. "It'll just take some time to get used to, but when you do, you'll relish it." She grinned. "Now you are death given life, and only the gods know what wrath that will bring down upon the changing world."

Viper licked her lips, and thought she could still taste a trace of the nightshade there.

"Dragonlord Vylornar is dead," she said, for the final time; she had to clear the revelation from her system. Sometimes she could hardly believe that it was true, and that she herself had been responsible for what countless others had intended, wished and tried upon him. "Of the first five Dragonlords of Alduin, wreaker of havoc and enforcers of the Dragonborn's will in the world, only one remains, the one who I wish dead most of all."

Nevada cackled. "Ollos had better begin to pray. You are not the same unsure thing that took his pretty pendant. Every inch of you has turned different. Should he see you again, he won't recognize you. Feel his lips on yours again—and it will be the last he ever knows. How the bards will sing of that glorious day when it dawns."

"I heard something interesting about him," Viper recollected, as she began to comb Endurance's forelock. "The others mocked his flaw…and from what I gathered, it seems Ollos has always nurtured a certain weakness for women."

"Aye to that; a lustful creature you've learned he is."

"I think I learned it long ago. I doubt I could have seduced another Dragonlord half so well." Viper shook her head. "But there's no chance of me using his weakness against him, to serve my benefits. He's seen my face and he knows very well what I can do, and with Vylornar's death, what I intend to do."

"He's seen the Viper's face," Nevada frowned, "but not _your_ face. The Viper is no more. He will whisper another name soon enough, and it will be a name that he, and all the Dragonlords, shall whisper in fear."

Viper smiled to that fantasy. "They have no more fear."

"You told me yourself; Vylornar was afraid when he died."

"He did well in not showing it, but his eyes…death does something to a man or mer, in his eyes if nothing else. The soul knows when it's dying, when death can't be cheated, when darkness swallows it whole. Vylornar feared darkness. That was why he cherished his flame. It burned all the darkness away. When it was deprived of him…" Viper stroked the horse's muzzle. "Death spares no one," she concluded, and as soon as she said the words, she knew the words were hers.

Nevada smirked. "You _have_ learned."

"I've grown," Viper replied, as she swapped the comb for a hoof pick.

She'd cleaned out both of Endurance's front hooves and was just about to move onto his hinds when she felt a gentle, imploring nudge in the small of her back. Viper straightened. Shadowmere stood behind her, rolling his gleaming scarlet eyes. He snorted and forced his head into her hands. Puzzled, she stroked his sable hair. He seemed contented.

"He likes you," said Nevada somewhere behind them. "That's unusual. Normally he won't let anyone but his mistress near him. He must know you have the Listener's favour. That animal never misses a beat with our dear Listener."

"I think I understand why," Viper murmured. Shadowmere was far more than he appeared to be, that much she understood. She might never come to know what it was about him that felt so alien, but that didn't seem important. She stroked his handsome throat and the black horse closed his eyes in pleasure before he pulled away and, too quietly for any animal, returned to his stall. The other horses shied at his approach and relaxed only when he had moved on. Even Endurance had, although he'd tolerated Shadowmere's fathomless presence more than most.

"Must almost be time," said Nevada, so they finished grooming her pet and returned to the Sanctuary above. The half-faced Nord shot Viper a sidelong glance. "You're ready to enter the fold?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Good. Come on, then, they'll be waiting for us."

They were. Viper stepped into a room filled with the Family. Contained in this one small space, their number appeared greater than it really was. All of them were dressed in full raiment, and all had their masks in hand, as of yet unadorned, so she could look into all their natural eyes as she progressed to the end of the chamber. The walls were striped with the Dark Brotherhood banners. At the end of the room stood the Listener, clad in her deep black robes, her hands clasped and her long white hair sweeping freely about her shoulders. Just before her was a small altar of roughly hewn stone, and upon them was a folded pile of black and scarlet. Upon that lay the mask.

Suddenly breathless, Viper halted before altar and gazed upon her new profile, but she had little time to marvel over it, for the Listener spoke almost as soon as she halted.

"She came to us a stranger, conscious of only one side of the world's one truth. But she had returned life to us, a life that we thought we had lost long ago to the uncertain shadow where treachery festers. The way was offered to her, and she was free to choose if it would be one she walked or if she felt her fate lay elsewhere." The Altmer's old amber eyes bored unblinkingly into Viper, who looked away, unsure if she could hold such a fierce stare. "She came to us differently than any. There was a shift in the pattern that makes the world beyond our haven. Suddenly the contract lies fulfilled, done by this stranger's hand, and as the Void claimed him she completed her acceptance of the world's one truth; that as there is life, there is death to end it."

The words seeped into Viper's heart, and she felt it changing in her, changing her.

"She came to us a stranger," the Listener repeated, "departed a friend and returned a Sister to us all. Her deeds speak in her silence. Her actions proclaim her wisdom. Vylornar Andorhlil now resides in the Void, an offering to the Dread Father he welcomes with deepest satisfaction, as do we all. Her slaying of him was the signing of a covenant. The manner of execution, her signature. His blood, the ink. She has pledged her life to give death, and as are we all, she is one with the darkness of the truth. She is now a Sister of the Brotherhood, a daughter of the Void, a servant of Sithis…and so much more."

Viper raised the mask to her eyes, gazing at the design of her new face. The Maskmaker had taken everything into account most excellently. The mask's shape was unusual and different to all the others'. It would cover her forehead, eyes, cheeks and nose, but it had left her chin and mouth exposed. Sewn to its jaw was the folds of a lower cloth mask that would cover what the upper hard mask did not; she could raise over her nose, to veil the lower half of her face. The rest of the dark fabric would cover her throat and bundle over her shoulders. It was all a part of her new profile. The symbol upon the upper mask was that of a dragon's skull, its black empty sockets encircling where her eyes would be, its four horns—two over the eyes, two under them—arching to the rims. Encircling the design was a serpent, sleek and elegant, its head directly between the skull sockets, its long body coiled through the skull. Like Half Moon, the mask sported three colours. The background was black, the skull silver, and the serpent red.

She looked quickly at the Listener, who asked, "Who are you?"

Viper blinked. She looked at the mask, then at her new leader, and shook her head. "I don't know."

The Listener took a step back and gestured to a door in the wall, to Viper's immediate right. "Assume yourself within."

Viper could only guess what that meant. Aware that the Family was watching her every move, she gathered her raiment and stepped quietly into the indicated room.

She was alone, alone to come to terms with everything as she slowly donned her armour. She'd been dressed in the same plain attire she'd worn during her earlier stay in the Sanctuary, for she'd returned the Listener's old armour to her. Now Viper undressed and adorned the armour that was _hers_. Shaded of darkness and the sanguine of blood, the elegant raiment fit her like a glove. Twin pads guarded her shoulders, while long pointed sleeves that fell to her elbows veiled scale-like armour down her arms. Her gloves rose up her arms, and not a trace of red disturbed the pure black layer over her hands and fingers. Her chest and back were padded over with some sort of hard material, like boiled leather, only harder, but not heavy enough to be metal of any kind. The same substance padded her kneecaps. Pointed strips of cloth fell around her hips, falling only as far as her knees, lined in subtle red. Her boots were padded sanguine, and like her gloves needed to be laced. She did them quickly, her fingers moving easily through their cold new sleeves quickly warming to the wearer's heat; and then she stood, feeling remarkably different, but good. She hadn't worn a uniform to call her own since her leaving the Thieves Guild, and the raiment was light as air on her.

Then she turned for her mask. She threw her hair back and placed it over her, wondering how it might feel. It slipped snugly, and she saw clearly through it. The cloth part proved true to her earlier surmising, draping over her shoulders and slipping like a sleeve around her throat. There was no tying, no lacing, no tightening needed; somehow she and it fit together. Her hair flowed easily and thickly over both lower and upper mask. She imagined her green eyes glinting from the sockets of the dragon skull and the scarlet serpent upon her brow. Then she lowered the cloth cowl over her nose, so her mouth was exposed. The Maskmaker had taken into consideration her method, and she made a note to thank him kindly, for the thoughtfulness of her mask and the beautiful fit of her armour, when she found him again.

 _Assume yourself within,_ the Listener had said. Viper had obeyed, unknowing—but as she examined herself, dressed in darkness and adorned in her new profile, she understood almost at once. Her mind cleared, her heart slowed, and she welcomed the cold within her with open arms. She raised the cowl over her nose again and turned for the door.

And so it was that she, transformed, re-entered the Sanctuary their Sister at last.

Everyone but the Listener had adorned their masks, and stood still and soundless, but their eyes followed her progress as she returned to the altar, to stand once more before her Listener—only this time, she was complete. Viper had never felt so complete, and she relished it.

"Welcome, Sister," the Listener greeted. Viper relished that, too.

"From shadow you came, into darkness you descend. You have learned the world's one truth and so shall those the Void demands. They have evaded the call for far too long, their skill, their power, and their tolerance to death protecting them. All who have tried have failed, and our contracts persist unresolved. But to us all, a threat has been presented. A contract has been fulfilled. It marks the beginning of the path you shall tread in Sithis's name. Its end is the one that has sired such grief upon Tamriel, who is responsible for the creation of many of our contracts; whose own soul is marked, whose contract remains the one that the Brotherhood has failed to deliver time and time again.

"The Night Mother understands this. I understand this. So it is that she and I have awaited the one talent that possesses the ability to conclude what, until this night, was seen as impossible. Our patience has been rewarded through you, my Sister. Your dealings with the Dragonlords speak your worth and your ability. So it is that we as one task you to deliver the gift of death to Tamriel's most dangerous enemy."

Viper bowed her head. The darkness was in her, one with her heart. She was whole; she was not afraid and knew she never would be again.

"There is very little that is known about your target, my Sister," the Listener continued gravely. "However it is marked. You have seen, you have heard, and you have witnessed what the world will never know. He goes by many names and none speak true of him; find the one that is his own, that even the darkness knows not. Know that all you learn of him will be your ally; his name, your salvation. You have demonstrated your ability. Now use it to achieve this contract, in any form, in any way."

Viper nodded slowly. "I shall," she whispered, and was even excited. Her blood ran swiftly through her veins. It was as if she had opened her eyes for the first time. The darkness in her spoke again, as it had spoken to her throughout her confrontation with Vylornar; and it assured her that where all else had failed, she would succeed. She had no reason to fear at all.

"And so begins another contract bound in blood," the Listener breathed, and lifted her gaze to indicate all of her Family, the initiation complete. Viper turned to look upon them, they who were Brothers, Sisters, who were loyal to her, and she to them. She saw their multitude of faces, and among them, Half Moon, as much baptized this night as she.

"Who are you?" the Listener asked.

Viper knew. "I am Dragonbane," she answered, "and I will see betrayers fall." Unseen under her cowl, she smiled. "Death spares no one. Not even the Dragonborn."

 **d|b**


	55. XXXXXIV - Fire and Ice

**d|b**

 **-Pyrus-**

Pyrus's return was without ceremony and almost escaped notice, if not for the guards that patrolled the streets of Winterhold. He doubted they recognized him when they remarked upon his less-than-healthy presentation. He'd become quite unrecognizable in his weeks of travel, certainly a good deal thinner, his clothes more ragged and worn in, his beard thicker and little more than a disgusting tangle. He hadn't bothered to shave, and didn't even think of it as he crossed the bridge to the College in the frigid dark of the autumn night. He had much more exciting matters to concern himself with.

The return had been painstakingly slow without a horse, and he hadn't dared to hire carriages or attempt to waylay travellers; the risk was too great. He was so close, it was terrifying. So close to success, and that would make any defeat all the more unbearable. The egg was safe with him again and he would not part with it again. This night, even, he intended to hatch its occupant.

 _Give it life with fire and ice._

He'd barely been able to sleep with this thought in mind. Excitement nourished him better than the scraps of food he'd lived off on the return journey. The information the outlaws had given him continued to fascinate and inspire him. He had several theories churning incessantly through his mind, but he hoped that with the one ritual the captive dragon had shared with him would work on its own. Its reluctance spoke assurance that it would…it could work. It had a chance of working, more than any of his theories.

He returned to his room, unchanged since he left it. He set his bulging satchel down on the bed, barred the door, swept his table clean of clutter, and only then did he withdraw the egg. It was really a beautiful specimen, almost a shame to break it; but it was a priceless waste if he allowed the egg to stay as it was. The dragon within…now there was the real prize…

Breathless again, Pyrus set the egg down upon the table and seated himself before it, tingling all over. His eyes followed the whorl designs set into the otherwise flawless shell, tinged faintly blue even in the dim light. He stroked it and thought he felt the life within shiver in response to his touch. _It wants to wake,_ guessed a delighted thought, and fire and frost sparked in either palm.

 _Give it life with fire and ice._

What the dragon had said to do was to reverse the nature of the otherwise destructive element in every form; to coax an ice-blooded beast from its shell-sleep with fire, to draw a flame-veined creature into wakening with frost. Pyrus quelled the excited magic in his hands and frowned at the egg. What was it? Fire or ice? Was it both? Could it _be_ both?

He tried to think back…he'd heard about it from that freerider fellow in the inn…and the freerider had mentioned someplace. Pyrus racked his brain for the memory, located fragments of it, tried to piece it together…and then it came to him. Yes, he was starting to remember. The freerider had spoken of the lonehold…north, and he'd found the mother's lair, and the mother dead, a hollow crudely cut in the frozen walls of her icy lair…

A frost dragon, then? Could it have been? Pyrus wished he'd gone to check, he knew full well that those bandits along the road weren't a trouble anymore…

But there was no time. He couldn't wait, and he wouldn't. For now it seemed the dragon was bred and blooded in ice. It could be hatched in fire.

Pyrus picked up a brazier from the floor, set it upon the tabletop, and conjured flames into his palms. He rubbed them both together, then spread the fire along the base of the brazier, where he had it continue to flicker and give off heat, even though it had no fuel. Suspending fire he could do for a short while, but not for long; fire hungered constantly, and he could not manipulate the flare's existence for long. But for long enough to have the hatchling wake?

He then placed the egg into the burning brazier, where it immediately started to shake. That was a good sign, he hoped.

Then he concentrated the flame in his hands to centre in his palm, and he followed the engraved patterns upon the shell, hoping that in doing this he'd succeed in driving the hatchling into forced wakefulness. He continued this for a few more seconds, but saw no change, and soon stopped. Truthfully he hadn't expected it to be this easy. There had to be something more.

Perhaps the words with it? There seemed some prophetic quality to the dragon's speech. Pyrus repeated what he had done before. "Give it life with fire and ice. Give it life…" This too he quickly stopped. There was still no change.

He tried again, in the draconic he'd heard spoken. He could only remember snippets of the dragon's natural speech, but the phrase it had uttered, he'd made a particular point to remember in full. " _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz,_ " he breathed, struggling to grasp the guttural words. He stroked the quivering shell with his flame, and crooned the phrase again. " _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz._ "

Was it just his imagination, or did the egg jump in his hands?

Pyrus leaned back. Progress, maybe—the egg's response had changed, and to him in a positive way. So he had done something right. Speaking the phrase? Or speaking Draconic? He quelled the flame in the brazier and regained his energy by pacing through his room, dwelling on this puzzle. He thought back to the sworn secrets he'd gleaned from the captive— _dragonlings grow on knowledge._ And it was said only the mothers could hatch their little ones…why was it again? Had the dragon said? Yes, only her Voice could hope to waken her offspring…but he was performing a ritual the dragon insisted vigorously would be blasphemous.

Pyrus shook his head. The hatchling was a means to an end. He mustn't assume that poor sad creature's mantle of thought, else he'd be as hopeless as it had been. He could afford no distractions. He stopped still and pondered over how to continue the ritual. Fire had invoked some response from the egg, as little as it had been…should he continue with it? Should he try frost? Those two elements seemed more likely than commanding other less controllable forces to shock the hatchling into this world. The egg had been entombed in ice in the distant lonehold, not earth. Fire and ice were connected to it, of this he was certain.

 _Blood_. Abruptly Pyrus remembered. _The dragon also spoke of blood._

Immediately he was consumed with the memories of everything it had ever spoken about it. Yes, he could recall quite clearly; blood was needed in this ritual as well, to ensure the hatchling's loyalty. That was, perhaps, the most critical part of it. He massaged his temples and recalled _exactly_ what the dragon had said about the matter…

 _Blood of the beholder, may it vein the victim shell, both are sacrificed on unknown behalf. Draw it from the shell-sleep with your presence._

Yes, that was it. Pyrus shuddered in growing exhilaration. Perhaps that was the reason for the intricate patterns upon the eggshell; to carry blood. Did the mother shed her blood over the shell before waking it with her Voice? Perhaps she did—and certainly he would. He looked around for something sharp and came across his razor. That would suit. He slit a deep cut on his fingertip and drew it over the whorls, which filled with red. Then he tried again. The Draconic was coming easier to him now.

" _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz._ "

There was no mistaking it; the egg definitely jolted. Pyrus recoiled in amazement and watched, hoping against hope…but no crack split the surface, and no hatchling emerged. It remained stubbornly within its shell-sleep.

 _What am I doing wrong now?_ Pyrus cursed. He was losing patience. Fuming to himself, he paced across the room once more, looking anywhere for a source of inspiration. His hands brushed his robes and caught briefly on his belt. He looked down in response…and stopped dead still.

 _His robes were stained with dragon blood._

A candle lit in his mind. Pyrus seized the stained fabric, only to fume again. No, that wouldn't work, the blood was all dried into his clothes. Perhaps he could try soaking it out, thickening the essence of the dragon black it with his own warm red, and bathing the egg in it? Would the fire even take to it? Would it respond to that? Surely it had to. The mingling of blood, fire and the knowledge of draconic would surely, _surely_ be enough to snap the hatchling out of its shell-sleep. If not…could he try again, with frost? Pyrus could feel the defeat he dreaded brooding on the corners of his mind, more profoundly than before, but he refused to think of them now. He knew what he had to do. He would continue to apply his every theory, from logical to outrageous, until he was exhausted of any possibility. Only then would he consider this experiment a defeat.

He filled the shallow bowl with snow from the courtyard outside, rushed back into his study and melted it with the fire dancing from his fingertips. He made sure the water was hot and steaming before he unfastened the blue drape over his front and soaked it. With his cut hand he rubbed at it, and an interesting blend of scarlet and black began to discolour the water. Only when he felt there was too much of his own red did his uninjured hand start scrubbing at the stain. Briefly he thought he might have to encourage the stain's removal with salt, but to his mild surprise he found that the blackish flakes began to stir quite easily under his fingertips. He continued to scrub until he could no more. Dragonblood seemed to come out quite well from clothes; only a faint permanent mark lingered in his robes, far less noticeable than the streak it had been before. The water was now more black than red, and smelled strong and unpleasant. He wrinkled his nose and cast his flames over it. They took to the blood water eagerly, like it might take to oil. Pyrus hoped it would burn just as slowly.

He lowered the egg back into the brazier. It trembled furiously.

 _It's working._ Pyrus dropped back into his seat, shaking with excitement. Could it be…? Was he almost there? He stirred fire in his hands and repeated the gesture as before, intoning under his breath the draconic phrase.

" _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz._ "

The shell was quaking so hard it surely had to crack.

 _Give it life with fire and ice._

Pyrus's flames swelled in his hands, blazing over the shell. The whole egg was now engulfed.

" _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz._ "

That was when he heard the thin, almost inaudible wail on the edge of hearing, the most terrible sound that Pyrus had ever heard. Instantly he stopped, he lifted the egg from its burning bed of blood water, and the wailing ceased.

Now he was shaking in fear.

 _Have I killed it?_

He pressed bare palms against the shell, but it was just as cool as it had been when it had lived in his satchel. It had not retained the heat of the flames on any of its sides. And, thank goodness, he could still feel the pulse of the dragonling's life within. No, he hadn't killed it—but it had been in pain. What he had been doing, it had not worked.

Pyrus sat down, close to bellowing his frustration.

Wait—it had worked, to some extent. The egg had responded far more than it had before. The blood water had worked. His flames had worked. All he had done was increase the fire and the egg had begun to shriek. It wasn't more fire that he needed, but something else. Was it more blood, a variety of draconic, another phrase?

Or…?

One of his more outrageous theories came to mind.

 _Does it need ice as well?_

Pyrus considered this very carefully. _It had been entombed in ice,_ he argued. _'An egg entombed in ice can be driven into the world with fire.' That was what the dragon told me. That is how the dragon must hatch—and it was working before…_ Then he paused. _But, it was not enough. Something was missing. Some key ingredient that will be enough to wake it._

He ran over the conversation again in his mind, to see if he had left anything of the ritual out. He didn't seem to have. He tried to formulate another theory that would involve just using fire and blood, but his thoughts obstinately lingered upon the ice. It quickened in his hand, a pale grey mist pulsing gently in his fingertips. Yes, he could cast a weak variant of the spell, as a pupil of destruction he'd had to study all the types—but would it be enough, and would it even work?

Questions he could not answer now, questions whose answers he vowed to find himself, and only by himself. He would not have the other mages discovering any shred of this. They would remove the egg from his grasp and put an end to his experiment. He had come too far to allow them to ruin everything.

Pyrus positioned himself, hoping against hope that he would not prove the undoing of this fragile thing. He stood the egg upright in the burning blood water brazier and placed his hands, palms in and a good foot away, from either side of the patterned shell. He allowed the magic to grow stronger, separated the realities of fire and frost from one another—divergent elements had the potential to tear each other apart when projected through the vitality of the single vassal, but it could be done, with focus and a clear understanding of what made fire and ice so different, and why.

It could be done, and he would do it. He would give the egg life. Not fire _or_ ice, fire _and_ ice. It had to work. He prayed something had to work.

Then he released the spells.

The instant frost and flame connected with the blue-tinged shell of the dragon egg, he knew his theory had proven right for a change; he immediately felt different, and the egg's shaking was not as wild as it had been before. It was responding to both fire and ice. Thrill raced through Pyrus. His spells strengthened, the mist of ice battling against the heat of flame. The blood water burned brighter. The egg shook harder. Pyrus muttered insistently in Draconic, not daring to take his eyes from the egg, not daring even to blink. _Give it life with fire and ice. Give it life…_

" _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz._ "

The few words spoken in the egg's kindred's tongue had a remarkable effect. The egg began to teeter, bulging in odd places. The dragonling was waking up. It was fighting to get out. Pyrus's excitement mounted. It was working. It was working!

" _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz!_ "

Something was happening in him as well. The understanding of fire and ice was becoming blurred, the longer he sustained the streams of frost and flame. Pyrus was feeling slightly giddy. He'd been warned about the blending of elements, the instability it raised, the volatility of a kind he couldn't hope to control…but it was almost beautiful, watching scarlet flames flickering amid the flow of frost, and shoots of silver shivering coldly among the fire…

" _Ofanii laas voth yol ahrk iiz!_ "

The blood water was burning low, his energy was draining slowly but surely…but he couldn't stop now. Pyrus feared that if he did, it was all over. He would never come this close to hatching the egg again. The adrenalin strengthened his spells but he knew it wouldn't be for long. His thrill was fading; dread was taking its place. He couldn't fail, not this close, not now!

Other phrases he'd heard in Draconic he spoke wildly in swelling desperate hope. " _Hi laan vahriin soven!_ _Tiidun lost avok! Joor! Pruzah saag! Monahrel! Alduin!_ " The dragonling was fighting—its shell, the magic, or the person trying to wake it? " _Ausnahyol!_ " shouted Pyrus, his hands drawing closer together; the fire and ice swelled in its concentration—and then—right there—he saw it. He saw a crack running the surface of the egg, a thin high keening at the edge of hearing—

" _OFANII LAAS VOTH YOL AHRK IIZ!_ "

And Pyrus brought both fire and ice upon the egg, clapping his blazing palms upon the patterned shell.

The magic peaked, its concentration unable to be contained; it struck the egg and backlashed, shooting back through its caster's body, the raw essence of fire and ice both. Pyrus was aware of the surge, too great to comprehend or to label as pain, too strong to hope to resist. The next thing that he knew was that he was lying on the floor, feeling quite sick and dazed, struggling to grasp his wavering senses, feeling as though he was going to pass out again.

He lay there for a few minutes more, regaining his strength, before the thought struck him; _did it work?_

It propelled him back upright, so fast that he staggered and almost toppled over again. He caught himself, dragged himself upright, pulled himself upon his chair and with his clearing eyes stared down at the result.

His breath caught in his throat.

 _It had worked._

Sprawled across the tabletop was a hatchling, _his_ hatchling. What remained of the egg were fragments scattered in pieces on the table or all over the floor in small bluish shards. Several still covered the dragon, draping over its head, wings, tail, its tiny claws. Pyrus, for a moment, didn't move. His elation subsided somewhat. Was it dead?

No. No, it wasn't dead, it was alive. Its flanks were moving in time to its small rapid breaths.

Was it awake? Pyrus cautiously prodded it. The thing gave a very faint squeal of protest, and stirred. It was awake, and very much alive. His heart swelled until he could barely contain him. _Triumph_. He had hatched the egg. The ritual was done. The dragon was woken and it was his. Really, it was quite amazing how tiny the little creature was, barely of a size with a cat, considering the monster it would one day grow into.

The hatchling picked itself up, trying its legs and folded wings for the first time. It shook its head and the bits of shell over it slid off. It swung its small head around and tried a few uncertain steps, only to wobble and fall forward. Pyrus hesitated, then cautiously slipped his fingers under its chin. It made a soft crooning cry, the most beautiful little warble he had ever heard. He lifted it back onto its feet and it stumbled towards him, its cry becoming more persistent, so faint and so high he strained to hear it. It was a pleasant mixture of washed-out blue over pale grey in colour, with a long thin tail and wings that looked far too large for it, folded and creased like old parchment. It seemed to have the beginning of a prominent underbite, for some reason. Its skin was marked with the beginning of its scales, and very soft.

 _Fire made flesh_. Pyrus couldn't stop smiling as he stroked the creature's bald tiny head with his thumb. _It is mine, you are mine…_

And then he stopped. The tip of his thumb had brushed deep indents in the side of its head, which he had not noticed until now—which he should have seen right from the start, but had not, for caught in his euphoria at his success of hatching the egg, he hadn't noticed the deformity that, upon realizing it, drained all the excitement from him and left him cold with disbelief.

What had the dragon told him, warned him what would happen? _You follow a path of evil, firehand. Akatosh will curse you. The beauty of Aetherius will be denied you if you perform this sacrilege upon His child. The hatchling is best left to sleep forever than waken blinded and bound._

Pyrus had been just as obstinate as the egg he'd so foolishly sought to waken. He hadn't listened. Now it was done, and he regretted, and hated, and despised; himself, the egg, the hatchling still struggling to stand on his table. _You will have your dragon, mage,_ in his mind the dragon snarled. _You will have it twisted, and cursed, and vile. It will be nothing true!_ Its wrath had been terrifying to behold. _Blasphemy!_ it had screamed.

Pyrus stared blankly at the hatchling. The dragon had been right, as he should have known it would be. Damn his pride. This thing was nothing true.

It had been born blind.

 **d|b**


	56. Epilogue

**d|b**

 **-Epilogue-**

Tamriel was not what the Dragonborn remembered it to be. He had been absent from it for too long, and in his wake it festered with filth. Mortality had plunged into disarray. The cycle of generations had turned descendants hot-blooded and daring, and what they in turn had produced was…troubling.

It was easy, very easy, to underestimate what they could do. This the Dragonborn knew well. Days apart of each other, two powerful servants destroyed by mortal hands, and before that, a powerful soldier. The Red dragons remained very few in number, and the death of Lotjoorkriid caused fury among themselves; it proved very hard to command angry subjects, unless it was in the direction their minds had chosen.

It was Zoornahldir that caused more concern among the _dov_. The Dragonborn shared in it. A Revered that possessed great affinity with his Thu'um, able to command a number of exceptionally attuned Shouts, slain by the very man his lord had tasked him to hunt. His forces searched for him in vain. They claimed to have seen him vanishing into the earth itself and never rising from it, but the mortal scream of his death had been heard by all. As of yet, they had not succeeded in finding his body, which would be a great shame and waste if it remained lost. Zoornahldir might still be able to continue to serve his lord, if his body remained intact and his spirit angry. His Voice was not one to put aside.

Nor was the ability of Vylornar. The Dragonborn would not have his memory suffer the shame of being slain in his own quarters, in the shadow of the World-Eater, by an assassin. They still possessed the body. He would allow the low folk to speak what they would of the Dragonlord. Soon they would not speak at all.

The Dragonborn's travels had not been for naught. He had gone across the oceans and to the birthplace of the mighty race, where in the land so empty he had searched for the elements. He knew not what they truly were, only that they proved a direct means of tapping into the spheres of existence. The sky. The land. He had even moved beyond that, into time.

Time had been one of Alduin's many teachings, and Time the Dragonborn had long since mastered.

What things he had learned in the ancient past. What things he would command in the present. What a future awaited them all.

For Alduin had wished it to begin. He wished for the ancient past to become the fierce present. The Dragonborn was wise in the elements he had gained from Akavir, and its power coursed through him, as so many others did. His blood ran warm and savage, his soul strong and unchained from its mortal constraints. He had conquered his own death once. Now the Dragonborn would have death unwrought. They still had allies in Tamriel that could be put to better use than where they slept now.

So it was that he travelled across Skyrim, alone and unnoticed, as he first collected the old artifacts. Their bearers had turned feral and twisted into madness by the sky magic they had once loved and wielded in dreaded authority. The Dragonborn would ensure that this time they would retain their minds and serve once again. Only then did he turn to the lost city of _Bromjunaar_ , where in the darkness awaited the head of the ancient order, the eldest who tapped directly into the lifeblood of the planet and so sustained himself upon it.

He had witnessed _Bromjunaar_ in its glory as he stepped into the days the Ancient Eldest of dragonkind spoke of. The Dragonborn came upon a jumbled ruin drowned in many millennia's worth of ice and snow. He was aware that the low folk had a name for this, as they had a name for almost everything—even him, he knew they called him things. Ysmir the Unworthy. The Dread.

" _Joorpaalrah_."

The Dragonborn turned. Upon one of the great arches rearing from the sheltering mountains crouched a dragon, and unlike any he had seen. It was of a kind new to him, but the energy that resonated from its soul was sheer in its strength.

"I do not know you," he said.

"I doubt you would," the dragon answered, soft, low, but clear. "I was long before your time."

The Dragonborn's attention sharpened. "There was only one other time before mine."

"Yes. And I speak of that time."

"You mean to say you lived through the First Quelling?"

The dragon assented. "I have lived all these years away. But unlike Paarthurnax, I did not allow them to consume me." He arched his neck and splayed his wings to demonstrate his immense size. "I have not forgotten the arrogance mankind demonstrated in what they name the Dragon Wars. I have only waited until a suitable leader has proven himself, before I returned to Tamriel to follow him."

"You speak of Alduin?"

"No." The dragon leaned forward. "Alduin I followed once. When he fell to the trickery of men, I vowed to never again. No true god would be brought low by men. It is the most powerful who the dragon race follows. Today they follow the wrong master. But when one throws off the shackles of destiny bound to him before his birth, a binding forged through the Elder Scrolls themselves, and then to discard the shackles of his own mortality to become righteously immortal…" A soft hiss rattled in his throat. "… _that_ , my lord, is _true_ power."

The Dragonborn was intrigued. "Come here."

This the dragon did. He climbed down from his spire to stand upon the frost-swept earth. His hide was wholly black and indigo, his crest consisting of two thick curved horns, his eyes most unusual in the way each one glittered in four places. His patterned wings were dark blue, their very faintest edges tinged silver. "Call for Vedkreinaus," the dragon named himself, "and he shall come to serve the one worthy of the name _god_."

The Dragonborn considered him. The soul energy of this creature was the most powerful he'd ever felt, even from Alduin. "You pledge your service to your brothers?" he asked.

"I have only two brothers," answered Vedkreinaus. "My eldest is aloof and unseen for all the millennia that have passed in the wake of the First disastrous Quelling. I am certain he goes by a new name now, to avoid answering whenever I Call for him. He is neither live nor dead, that is all I know of him, for in such arts he dabbled too deeply. My youngest, Faasdusil, is also in Tamriel with me. He may have seen a mere century of life, but his ambition rivals that of any that name themselves Ancient Eldest. I have raised him myself and I assure you, very few could hope to withstand his Voice. We three are the last of our race and our race is the oldest of all races. And we will serve our one true master."

The Dragonborn placed his hand upon the dark snout, closed his eyes, and entered the dragon's mind and soul. Every Word of Power integrated into the dragon's core was reflected upon the Dragonborn. He knew them all, and was startled to discover that Vedkreinaus's Voice matched his, but for a single Shout.

He withdrew with praise. "You are legendary."

Vedkreinaus blinked in acknowledgement of the compliment.

"And the dragon Faasdusil?"

"Half-sired, his mother blooded of lightning and tempests. He bears my blood, but his father is Akatosh, as he fathers us all. Faasdusil's understanding of the storm naturally exceeds my own, but nothing alive may hope to rival my ability of soul tearing." Vedkreinaus smiled. "It is my greatest gift and my gift to you, should ever you need it."

"I will," said the Dragonborn, "you and your brother both."

"So I see in you. You come to the old ruins of _Bromjunaar_ this night, with unusual intent about you."

"You know what sleeps beneath if you are as old as you say."

"I am older," rumbled Vedkreinaus.

They sauntered through the ruins. " _Bromjunaar_ has been my home while I awaited your coming here," the dragon said. "I sensed that you would. You wandered my fatherland for many years, connecting body and blood to the elements of existence. You already had evaded time death, and from that I suspected why the burning eyed god had come to Akavir. You come now to the old ruins with death upon your mind. How my wayward brother could help you, and it is to my chagrin I know not where his passion for dwelling in such arts have taken him."

"I need no help," said the Dragonborn. "I have all I need."

"So be it," Vedkreinaus responded. "The Glorious Priest awaits below. No doubt he is aware of your arrival here."

 _No doubt_ , the Dragonborn agreed, and proceeded to the vast door alone.

The ruins of _Bromjunaar_ had been sealed long ago by the last who had dared to enter the place. However, he was now in possession of the key. Vylornar had always excelled in the performance of his duties, and retrieving the torc of Labyrinthian from the current Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold had been simple enough. The Skyrim-wide census he had conducted had provided an unquestionable excuse to have access to the College, and the news he had brought from _Krentuld_ had been an excellent reminder of the dangers of temptation.

Nonetheless, that threat was exterminated, and he need think no more of it.

The Dragonborn inserted the torc into the door, and the magic sealing it was broken. He was granted entrance to the lost city within.

All was quiet. He proceeded deeper into its blackest depths. What magic once lingered here was long dead, and for a time he heard nothing. However, the Priest was more than aware of the intrusion. As though from nothing, there came a whisper, rasped and dragged reluctantly from a body corrupted by time.

" _Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?_ " Who comes to my dark kingdom?

The Dragonborn felt the raw magic flow through him, but if it could have affected him once, it did no longer. He harnessed his own upon it and sent back an answer.

" _Nii los zu'u, Dovahkiin._ "

Silence pervaded. He travelled deeper, into a crumbling crossroads of sorts, while day-deprived rivers swirled darkly beneath him.

The ancient guardian spoke once more. " _Nivahriin muz fent siiv nid aaz het._ " Cowardly men shall find no mercy here.

Again, he answered. " _Niney nikriin nuv jul bo._ " Neither coward nor man comes.

And only silence lasted until the Dragonborn came upon the final chamber, where the Priest of elder times had been sealed.

With but a few whispered words he dispelled the last traces of binding magic. Then he approached. "Morokei," he named, "your time has come again."

The Priest rose, turned skeletal in his undeath, wrapped in the tattered remains of the uniform of the Priests, but bearing the staff that would serve as a key instrument in the plans that lay ahead. The Dragonborn stood before both, and allowed the Priest to witness the small bag he held between them.

Morokei quickly lost patience. "Who are you to disturb me?" he snarled.

Wordlessly, the Dragonborn cast the sack down. Seven items spilled from it. Morokei grew quiet at the sight of the artifacts, and idly fingered his own, running a rotted finger over the eternally enchanted metal that shrouded his skull.

"Alduin would have you serve him again," the Dragonborn proclaimed.

"Alduin? _Dii drog?_ " Morokei swept forth, examining the masks that his fellow Priests once bore. His head snapped up. "What have you done with the rest and why?"

"They were obsolete, of no further use to you or to I."

"So why bring them here?" Morokei recoiled, as though disgusted.

"To remind you that you have an oath to the dragon race," the Dragonborn answered coldly. "An oath you have been forsaking while you dwelled here in your dark kingdom, ensnared by your own magic. Now that I have freed you from your torment, your oath belongs to me."

Morokei sneered. "Whatever makes you think I would serve you?"

" _Dov aam zok mul, ahrk muz aam pah dov_ ," the Dragonborn answered. "You were raised long ago to power, to command those who served dragonkind, in the name of the World-Eater. Your power remains and now it remains alone in Skyrim. You will command all those that once served the dragons, and you will act in my name."

" _Dovahkiin?_ " Morokei cackled. "If you are here then Alduin is dead. I have heard of the prophecy."

"The prophecy is dead," the Dragonborn snarled. "Alduin lives and the dragons reign. The world above is subjugated…or so it was for a century, as long as this new Era has lasted. Now mortalkind resists our rule. It is time for a third Quelling, and this one shall be different, far different to all the rest."

"Oh?" Morokei was listening at last. "How so?"

"Mortalkind will reap the consequences of their insolence," he answered. "They have dared to strike both dragon and enforcer down. The penalty will be to be struck down in turn by those who suffered the arrogance of mortality. I would have the dead see daylight and lead the purge. You shall wield terror as your greatest weapon, and once more you shall lead countless armies of mortal men, and know dominion over the weaker lot once again." The Dragonborn turned with blazing eyes. "And you shall do it all in my name."

Morokei hissed, but it was of thought, even excitement. He swept forth and brandished the staff in his hands, which tapped into the spirit of the world, and consumed the spirits of men. "I shall summon my vassals out of slumber."

"Use your magic. Stir the Draugr and have them serve once more. Reassert your reach across Skyrim. The masks I leave to you. Hallow them and they are yours to command, to act in _your_ name. But remember, Morokei…"

"Of course, _dii drog_." Morokei cackled. "I act in yours."

He cast his magic upon the seven masks at his feet, and the Dragonborn watched as seven specters rose, fleshed in the spirit of Nirn. Eight Priests rose in the darkness of _Bromjunaar_ , reveling in their freedom. The spectral drainwraiths embodied of Morokei's sheer power were stirring throughout the ruins. The energy within the air was growing. The spell of sleep was over.

And then the chamber was filled with the woken undead. The Dragonborn looked among them as Morokei proclaimed their ability. "Every one of their minds and souls belongs to me. Every one of them is loyal to me. Their existence is to serve in any form, be it to sate the hunger in my own undeath, or to act in the name of their masters. Across the land above the physical minions stir, lords and deathlords, scourges and thralls. Ready to punish the wicked. Ready to purge your foes."

"Good." The Dragonborn turned with his white eyes burning. "Have them ready."

"Your word is mine, my lord." Beneath his mask the Priest was surely smiling. "When do we begin?"

 **d|b**


	57. Afterword

**d|b**

 **-Afterword-**

Before you ask, yes: there will be a sequel. But more on that in a moment.

I'm fairly certain, though not 100%, that it was somewhere in June 2014 when the idea for _Tyranny in Fabled Flesh_ popped into my head. What was certain about that day was the instant sowing of something epic, the most dramatic piece of literature I've ever conceived for anything. When the synopsis took around ten seconds to create I knew it was going to be one of those projects I'd get finished.

I blame _Torn_ for even leading me down this path. Having explored the journey of a Dragonborn (and many, at that!) that was neither canon nor in the canon world, it was only a matter of time before I had a new unusual Dragonborn story in mind. I wrote a synopsis to interest me and get the creative juices flowing. Clearly they got flowing.

I am just about the most inconsistent person I know. That's the problem with unchecked creativity. One week I'm utterly obsessed with my original fiction. I go to sleep thinking over my characters of that story. I work for hours and hours without pause (if possible) on that project. The next week I find I can't even string words together, because I'm absorbed with a computer game, from whence derives 80% of my total fantasy input (the remaining 20% being books, of course). The week after I can't stop drawing. These swings of focus I have labelled 'phases', and I have a phase for just about anything. Skyrim phase, dragons phase, art phase, writing phase, game-walkthrough phase, book phase. When the phase hits there's no convincing my interest elsewhere. I can't think of anything else and I'll make progress like a maniac.

Always, though, the phases bring me back to writing…and recently, they're all coming back to _Tyranny_ , because every single day, the world and the characters grow all the more solid, all the more tangible. My vivid imagination paints cinematic trailers, vibrant scenes, the identities of the characters you have now come to know very well.

The Tyranny phase has been a tyranny on my mind on its own. 2015 was a _tough_ year, but richly rewarding in that it's kickstarted something epic.

I find it hilarious to think that when I first joined this site way, way back in 2012, all I had planned to produce were three novels. One ended up being born of a spontaneous decision: _The Huntress_. The other two were "Dark Heroes" and "After the Storm", later renamed "Dragonsong"—these two have not been written. "Dark Heroes" has been attempted a couple of times. I may come back to it in future, for Alyssa Laryssin holds a very special place in my heart, in that she was the _Dovahkiin_ of them all who first established my presence as a writer here on this blessed site. The first Elder Scrolls series I planned to write would explore the life, trials and adventures of Alyssa. Of course, fate works in strange ways. I don't yet know if I will ever get round to writing out any of Alyssa's novels—her Chronicles, or the "Of Eagles and Dragons" saga, or even "Dark Heroes", her final journey. Life takes precedence in the end, and I have had to slash and burn like a flame atronach.

I don't regret anything, though—the result? You've just finished reading it.

I can't express to you just how much of my life _Tyranny_ has become. It's more than a fanfiction. It's more than invaluable experience. It's more than reading your thoughts and reactions in the reviews. It's an enormous weight off my shoulders, because some of you may be interested to know that _Tyranny_ isn't some standalone project. It's the successful result of half a dozen different storylines from half a dozen different alternate certainties of Skyrim, and against all my expectations it _has_ become my purpose here.

I have a remarkably overactive imagination—not a day goes by when I don't think of Skyrim, or my characters born of the land, or the stories born of the characters—when I don't envision those high-detail adrenalin-inspiring game cinematics being applied to my own creations, with its own dramatic theme music, even. There was a time when I was so absorbed with making fanfiction that I had forty to fifty entirely separate novels planned for this corner of the site. Of course I could never write forty to fifty Skyrim novels in my lifetime. I sat down and sifted, slashed and burned through those ideas, which—as I do now for all my stories—I conceive, then leave to simmer. Among those ideas were the nourishment the Tyranny seedling needed to bloom and grow.

In fact, I don't think I would have even made connections and realized this book if not for a three-part series I almost got round to writing (until, of course, that phase ended and I moved onto other things without looking back). This anonymous series was, in fact, the very original Tyranny, and absolutely deserves mention, because this became the backbone of _Tyranny in Fabled Flesh_. The first two were deliberately linear. "Tyranny of the Wyrm" followed the main quest. The hero? A Nord who woke on the carts with amnesia, and spent the book trying to find himself, fell in love with Lydia (of course), and ultimately defeated Alduin by sacrificing himself. "Tyranny of the Sun" then detailed the Dawnguard questline through the Dragonborn's son, whose name began with T, at least. And then, finally: "Tyranny of the Storm", which followed T and the Stormcloak rebellion a generation later from the main game. The rebellion was no longer led by Ulfric, but by his son, Kaarn.

Because I liked the name more than anything, Kaarn earned a place in the new reboot of _Tyranny_. The original setting was him as the Raider Chieftain, nothing else. He'd know what he was doing, but he wouldn't be a major character. Early on in the writing it became very, very clear that Kaarn Stormbear was no minor character. In fact, there wouldn't be a story without him.

What about other characters? Ah, yes, Viper.

Her debut appearance on this site was originally intended for "The Wolf in the North", a story about a Stronghold-raised son of Solitude who fought in the Great War and—the kicker—that he was the brother of High King Torygg, bestowed to the Orcs of Haafingar in the same way Uriel Septim bestowed little Martin to Jauffre. (Please note "The Wolf in the North" was conceived before I discovered the joy of _A Song of Ice and Fire_. Now the wolf in the north to me is Robb Stark. Small wonder the story wouldn't work, my subconscious was already alerting me a wolf in the north existed.) Her original backstory in this fic is that she was an orphan who stole to survive, until she was adopted by the roaming alchemist Celandine. In this universe they did share a father-daughter bond. When Viper found him dead, slain for the sake of his possessions, she swore vengeance on those responsible, who turned out to be the Summerset Shadows, rivals of the Thieves Guild. In poetic retribution she added the celandine flower into her most fatally potent poison, which was just applied to a knife, and from then those she cut would bleed from eyes, nose and mouth as they died. Her actions against the Summerset Shadows earned her infamy and attention from the Guild, hence how she came to join them.

The protagonist of the book, Greywolf, so named for the wooden wolf-head pendant he'd carried since birth, would eventually meet Viper for a reason I never got round to fully fleshing out. What intrigued me for the premise of this fic, however, was a ruin in Haafingar, Volskygge. There's a riddle in the ruins there that I never abandoned:

 _The first fears all, the second fears none,  
The third eats what it can, preferably number one,  
The fourth fears the second, but only when alone,  
All must be activated in order if you wish to go home._

Four animals to choose from: snake, bear, fox, wolf. A candle flared in my brain. Namely the potential of this poetic conclusion: Bear = Ulfric Stormcloak, Windhelm. Wolf = Greywolf, Solitude. If I got round to planning the original fox I've quite forgotten—however, the snake was Viper. That would have been why she and Greywolf got round to meeting, if the story had worked.

But work it did, in some aspects: the unbelievably fitting premise of that riddle and the creatures it concerned led to the solidifying of Viper's character—who subconsciously was changed from Imperial to Breton—and the creation of Ross. If you have ever wondered why the symbol of a freerider is a fox pin, that is the insight behind it, that riddle in Volskygge and the four animals that have come to play remarkable roles in the Tyranny. Oh, and before you start getting smart ideas, Ross isn't going to eat Viper. Let's just say a hundred years later and conveniently that riddle has become a little…outdated. In fact, it's no longer a riddle, but reworded into a solemn prophecy.

 _The first feared all, the second fears none,  
The third sheds blood for the poisonous one,  
The fourth and the second will not fight alone,  
And all shall encircle the sinister throne._

Don't fret, you'll be presented with it in the first chapter. As for what it means? Join the dots and theorize, because I'll say no more on it. In any case, that riddle in "The Wolf of the North" served as Viper's origin, and partially Ross's—the other part was solely because I ran across the word 'freerider' during a Daenerys chapter in _A Game of Thrones_ , and upon reading it my brain had an explosion. Thus was Ross the freerider created, solely because I liked the premise of a non-violent fellow in a violent landscape, journeying the world like a lone ranger.

I made an ironic discovery a week or so ago. I picked up the novel _Time of Contempt_ to delve into the continued adventures of everyone's favourite Witcher, and instead the first page smacked me in the face with the royal messengers, who rode the land delivering messages. Hmm, I really should have thrown myself into that universe a lot earlier...

Chase was drawn from the story idea "Chasing Fire". In _that_ story's universe, Chase was the daughter of Aela and Skjor—hence, she was a pureborn lycanthrope, and hence her very name. As pureborn, she had advantages. She could hold wolf form at will and transition easily from one skin to the next. The drama in that story was that she was also conveniently Dragonborn—so not only was she a wolf, there was fire in her blood as well. It would have been one of those angst stories of not knowing who she was and who she was destined to be. Obviously the story didn't get written, but the legacy behind it lives on through _Tyranny_ 's own savage darling. Interestingly, reviewers have asked a couple of times if Chase's legacy traced back to the Huntress herself—well, readers, it does in a way, doesn't it? For the Huntress was the character's primal origin—as was Lupa, the wolf-wife of Hircine, who first appeared in Aela's fanfiction.

But that's not all I have to say about Chase, no, no. There was another fanfiction idea (yes, _another_ one!), "Sunmoon", that gave birth to the eight great Packs of Skyrim, and influenced Chase's storyline and history. The pack of the White Sun originally lived in the forests of Falkreath, and on moonless nights commanded Menhunts. The result of one was successful, in that a house was attacked and a woman slain, her husband and eldest daughter fled into the night. The youngest daughter was cradle-bound. The grieving she-wolf Ijah, who recently had lost her daughter Kaera, claimed the human cub as her own and raised it as such—much to the disapproval of her Alpha, Shirju. Thirteen years later the child was challenged by her Alpha. She defeated him with a single blow, shocking the Pack. She learned of how she came to the White Sun and promptly set off to find her place in the human world. It held the premise of an interesting tale, particularly as she was accompanied by her two 'twin' brothers along the way, and at some point found her way into the Companions…I believe I'd intended the story to end with Kaera uniting the eight great Packs of Skyrim. In a way, that happened.

Chase certainly went through the most development of the lot, I think. The method of wolf-naming and a hint of the wolf tongue stemmed from "Sunmoon", as did the character of Shirju, who has evolved into more of a fatherly figure than the cautious traditionalist seen in that unfinished novel. Ijah and Kaera's 'twin brothers' are also, in fact, mentioned in _Tyranny_ , though not by name. In chapter eighteen, I have Shirju make a statement of it, when he tells Chase, " _Your milk brothers live still, fear not, as do many of our pack who trained you in the hunt. But many more have been lost. Our eldest are gone, including the she-wolf who raised you, and our storyteller."_

A note about the packs themselves: Chase does not lead werewolves. She is the only werewolf among their number, and it was because of her lycanthropy that she was regarded as an abomination upon first sight by the other great Packs. They are but wolves who follow her, creatures of Lupa who have no love or care for Hircine…except, it seems, for Olyj, who believes the Huntsman has called his wayward daughter to the greenwood, where Earth Magic persists…

Pyrus and Nurrkha'jay have little backstory to speak of. The concepts of their characters—a half-Altmer fire mage and a Khajiit Blade—were presented and left to simmer for story and ideas. The response to them was overwhelming. I expected Nurr to quickly build a fan following, because I suspected a lot of readers would totally dig a Khajiit dragonslayer who wasn't Dragonborn—and a Blade, no less—as much as his creator did…and I appeared to have been proven right. Pyrus, however…the response I received for Pyrus was, by far, the most outstanding of all receptions. Let's be honest, I was blown away; depending on the reader, from absolute detestation to complete adoration—never have I made such a controversial character!

And it was utterly thrilling. In conclusion, Pyrus is my crowning success of _Tyranny_ , in that he achieved what I have never achieved before, with phenomenal results.

Now, about one thousand words ago I said there could be no _Tyranny_ without Kaarn. I stand by it, but I add: nor could there be _Tyranny_ without any of the five characters whose creative origins and processes I have revealed unto you. If there is one thing that _A Song of Ice and Fire_ has taught me, it is that there is no black and white, not even in fantasy. One character alone could not have captured the world I have built within the world of Skyrim, and Tamriel. One character could not have covered all this dystopia's aspects I sought to explore and reveal. One character just wouldn't have _worked,_ nor could have a single idea. Thus was it worth mentioning the novels I never got round to or finished writing—for if not for them, I think the world that would have stemmed from the spontaneous ten-second synopsis would have been quite different.

But I have remembered that there is one final piece of fiction that deserves its moment here in my reflection of this titan project. Some of you will recognize it. I don't think I would even have conceived the idea of the broken prophecy if not for an attempted fanfiction that went by the same name. The concept: what happened if, in Helgen, the Dragonborn didn't survive? What would happen to the world then? In fact, "The Broken Prophecy" was monumental in presenting two key ideas: the premise behind _Tyranny_ at all, and the idea of Alternate Certainties, the underlying theme for _Torn_ —which, now that I see, brings this part of the reflection around full-circle. Without _Torn_ there wouldn't have been _Tyranny in Fabled Flesh_. Without "The Broken Prophecy" there wouldn't have been _Torn_ and definitely no _Tyranny_ at all. No broken courses of destiny, no otherworldly Dragonborn storylines…Finally, everything has become connected, astonishing even myself. Your subconscious knows all and misses nothing, it seems…

I do not lie or exaggerate when I say this novel has become my life. It is a monumental achievement and the beginning of something new, mysterious, and completely and utterly exciting. _Tyranny in Fabled Flesh_ is more than a fanfiction—its proportions are indeed epic.

And now it is over! And yet, it is not…for the tyranny has only begun.

As soon as I finished planning _Fabled Flesh_ I knew I was being driven right back into the series format. There was too much left unsaid, too much to tell, to confine to a single novel. And thus, exactly like the father-concept "The Tyranny", this reign and its struggles will take place across three novels. The first is done. The second…promises to be thrice as long as the first. I groan thinking about it. No matter what I have done, no matter how many corners I have tried to cut, the layout displays 129 chapters, not counting the prologue or epilogue. I suspect that is partially due to three new points of view who will join our five originals. It is also due to the fact that each separate storyline is over ten chapters long, and the longest is seventeen. I hate my brain sometimes. There is just too bloody much going on.

But this is a book upon which I have put my foot down. There is no slashing or burning left to do. The layout is complete: _Tyranny of Sundered Souls_ is going to be 129 chapters plus its prologue and its epilogue. It has already been started, and just like _Fabled Flesh_ I intend to get the thing written before posting, for the sake of regulars.

Now don't explode with panic, dear readers! Writing this sequel is probably going to take all of this year, if I'm lucky and work very, very hard at it, which I endeavour to do, as much as life permits me, at least…But instead of torturing you all by making you wait until the epilogue has been written, I have come to an intelligent decision. I have split _Sundered Souls_ into two even parts, each about sixty-ish chapters. The first part is planned to end at a logical but gripping place for each of the eight characters whose stories you shall be following.

Really, the two halves could work as individual books, but because I'm strictly adhering to the trilogy plan, _Sundered Souls_ won't actually be divided into two separate files. No, what will happen is that the first half will be written. I will go over it, scrutinize it, drop hints if hints are needed and tie off as many loose ends as needed. Then the first half will be posted exactly like _Fabled Flesh_ ; regular updates, every three days. I calculate for posting sixty-seven chapters every three days, it will take approximately 29 weeks—about seven months—to get that half online. While you enjoy the first half, work on the second half of _Sundered Souls_ will continue. Dear gods…I really have my work cut out for me, don't I?

Well, I did say _Sundered Souls_ was going to be thrice as long as _Fabled Flesh…_

And why is it going to be so unreasonably ginormous, I suspect you wonder? Because things aren't just heating up in homely Skyrim. _Sundered Souls_ is going to be huge, because we're expanding the borders to include Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, even a scrap of Morrowind. The Nords of Old and the Blades are not the only opposition of Alduin and the Dread to be found in Tamriel, after all—there is the mysterious cause Uldmidaar serves, and the Merigard in the western provinces, and the new-forged alliance of wolves led by their Blood Mother…and more, riddles upon riddles. The dragon Sahrotaar, who served Miraak, is a fugitive of Alduin's empire, and it was implied in the _kosil kenlok_ that the Serpentine race refuses to serve the World-Eater. The Falmer have not been idle, either; killing brooding mothers and snatching eggs. An assassin has been named to hunt to death the Dragonborn himself. The vengeful, bitter greenwood, given life with volatile Earth Magic, is growing stronger as the balance shifts across the continent. Underlying the rising chaos, a child of prophecy is whispered, who Uldmidaar believes is the key to undoing the damage caused by the Dragonborn's betrayal.

What does this mean for me, the author? One hell of a lot more worldbuilding.

But the dragons are not the only soldiers of Alduin and the Dread. A long time ago there lived mortal men who worshipped the dragons as gods; who were cursed with undeath for their treachery; who were ruled by the predecessors of the Dragonlords, the Priests; who have been unbound and awoken. The First to serve will serve again…and so, may the sundering of souls begin.

The synopsis, as follows:

 _5E102: The century-long reign of the dragons is challenged. Led by the young prince of Eastmarch, open rebellions and hidden crusades prepare to rout the forces of World-Eater and Dragonborn both. But with new hope comes new peril, as the time-stricken undead rise to serve their old masters again. The consequences of prophecy revoked will be reaped, for betrayal is never forgiven._

Tempting? There is _plenty_ to get excited about, so I don't blame you if you're impatient, or frustrated. I don't think I'll be as bad as George R.R. Martin who reportedly writes approximately 350 words a day. As I said, I go through phases, and when a phase takes hold I become completely and utterly obsessed, and you'd be surprised at how much I can get done when I'm dedicated. And fear not—I don't intend to leave you in the dark while you await the upcoming sequel. I do more than write, you know.

I am also heartily distracted with the excitement of creating a trailer. Yes, a trailer. That is how epic the Tyranny has become; worthy of its own trailer, proving to be one hell of a lot of work with an appetite for time and patience alike. Oh, and when I say trailer, I really mean a fancy slideshow of Tyranny-related art, with a song that gets my blood going each time I hear it. I'm not going to set myself a deadline since I know I won't meet it, writing doesn't work well for me like that…so what I think will happen is when I can actually see the end in sight for the first half and know I can be finished by a certain date, the trailer will be posted, so make sure you keep an eye on my YouTube channel The ShoutStream, which you can google-search—but when the trailer's up I'll also put an announcement on my profile page, so watch out for that if that's easier.

I also post on DeviantArt, and for those who don't know my penname's the same over there as it is here. You can find my account by google-searching ShoutFinder. I already have a fair number of _Tyranny_ -related pictures posted there, among other things, and more are certain to be added. Who knows? I might even post a few of the trailer's pictures as a tease for the teaser…

I've mentioned videos and art, and now I'll loop it back to writing. I have a goal, to try and get about a quarter of _Sundered Souls_ —which is half of the first half—written in January, my holiday time. I don't think I'll succeed in writing thirty chapters in thirty days but we'll see what happens. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will strike. I may even expand deeper into the Tyranny universe and make some novellas to keep myself in the zone of worldbuilding. The greenwood I find in particular holds potential for a novella or two, or perhaps I'll follow Andrzej Sapkowski's example (one of my new favourite authors!) and create a collection of shortish stories regarding events in the world, which will take place before the main series (for those of you unfamiliar with Sapkowski, you may recognize his work, namely the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia); a prequel-sequel, if you will.

I am also seriously considering posting the prologue to _Sundered Souls_ early, like I did for _Fabled Flesh_ , to generate interest and accumulate potential new followers of the Tyranny. Not so early as right now, or tomorrow…perhaps when I am two-thirds of the way through with the first half, the prologue will be posted. I don't want to rush this project for the sake of pressing time, nor do I intend to make promises I can't keep. I do believe, however, that the prologue for _Sundered Souls_ is as momentous as the one for _Fabled Flesh_ , for it closely details a moment I do believe the majority of us have forgotten in lieu of what events followed it. I'll leave you wondering what I might mean.

And finally, three days from the posting of this afterword, I'm going to treat you all for your wonderful patience, enthusiasm and engagement in my story. There is a bonus update after this one—a peek at this promised next book. I think you'll be intrigued to see the world through this character's eyes.

So: you have learned my motives and drives that founded the Tyranny, and what plans I intend to fulfil in the future. Rest assured, dear readers, that there is still so much more to tell, so much left unsaid, so much yet to come. Once more I thank you all, those I know and those I don't, for your investment, your attention, and for taking a bit of time out of your own busy schedules to see what machinations I have made with my own. Until the Tyranny continues, I wish you a happy 2016, and luck in all your future endeavours.

May Talos smite His false heir the Dread, may He and the Nine see Alduin's end.

-ShoutFinder


	58. A Preview of the Next Book

**[A/N]: The promised preview! As you might remember, partly why Tyranny of Sundered Souls is going to be so enormous is the addition of three new POVs: Rain, a gifted Bosmeri bard; Raegim, our dear Blades apprentice; and...**

* * *

 **d|b**

 **-Ausnahyol-**

Vylornar's demise remained profoundly etched into his wingsteed's memory. Still, he remembered the agony of the spark in him withering, and a cold that seeded from within briefly spread through the whole core of his being—and in that moment, his power had waned, and had almost gone.

But Ausnahyol remained _dovah_ , and the fire had always lived in his blood. He awoke from the trance but seconds after it had begun, but with a dour certainty in his heart…mingled with astonishment. Silseyol, dead? That could not be!

But so it was, to the amazement of many.

To Ausnahyol, it was an impossibility made possible. The instant the spark had died in Vylornar's soul he knew the Dragonlord was gone, and he had been…empty. He was reminded of the fragility of the blessing Vylornar had granted him, and how much Vylornar's gift had fulfilled him. The gift remained his, it had only suffered from a severe shock, but the strength of that magic's near-dissolution had shaken him down to his soul. Reminding him of the weakling he had been born as, and the powerful creature Vylornar had uplifted him into being.

Ausnahyol knew what they called him, his brethren: 'the dragon who is not'. From freefliers to soldiers, hatchlings to the Ancient Eldest, those who had seen the Dragon Wars, that was what they named him, for they feared what they did not know. Only the inner circle knew of what it truly meant, to be what he was. Rarely did they speak of it. They were sworn to silence of it. They had respected Vylornar greatly, for he was the most like them of all the Dragonlords, his soul had been fire and his heart had been power and lust. Now with him gone, Ausnahyol wondered if they would speak.

They would not, he was sure. They abhorred weakness. They would not risk bringing such weakness upon themselves, by uttering of it.

The warm months had ended with Silseyol as well, and Ausnahyol could feel it stealing upon him, his great enemy. The greater one's power, the greater that which could undo that power. That was the balance of it, and to make it as stable as possible, it needed balance. Vylornar had understood the mysteries and so Ausnahyol accepted the cold to be his bane. The fire within him had to be nurtured. That was his power. He, like the Dragonlord, was more than just fire made flesh, his very quintessence was the flame, and though it burned bright in him still, the cold would wane it and cool his blood. It was ironic, to think that ultimately that had led to Silseyol's demise. Ausnahyol could not journey through a blizzard. His blood would chill. Let any fire-mouthed dragon grow too cold and they lacked the energy to fly. After the meeting he had told Vylornar this, and as always the Dragonlord understood, respecting him even though it had been him to raise Ausnahyol up from his own ashes into the inferno. That was why Ausnahyol had respected him, for they had respected each other's power.

While Ausnahyol felt no grief at Vylornar's passing, for his pride would not allow it, he was angry. Vylornar had deserved to die a _dovah_ 's death, not this…trickery of darkness. What were they called? _Meznarid._ Assassins. Death-givers. Life-takers. But if it truly was the same wicked creature that had first upset Ollos Darkheart…and then outwitted the necromancer of the north…

She was not the matter, Ausnahyol reminded himself. Vylornar had met her, and he had failed her, and that was the end of it. So that was how Akatosh had intended him to die? Very well, he would not argue against the passage of fate. But there was the matter, however, of Vylornar's honour.

Ausnahyol had reason to believe that it was being slighted.

His pride would not allow it upon the one who had uplifted him from weakling to greatness.

It was what spurred him through the skies in the early hours of dawn. Ausnahyol kept the inferno in him burning bright to ward off the chill of the yet-sunless day. There was still much of him that had remained the natural _dovah_ , and he knew it by the way his soul sang with the open sky above him. His kindred could not live without their Father's sphere all around them, and such was the thrill and sense of whole strength they felt under it that the music mortality named 'dragonsong' burst from them whenever the wind was under their wings and they lived in suspension and thrust.

However, Ausnahyol did not sing, at least not aloud. He relished the sky but never would dragonsong burst from him as it did his brethren. They shunned and feared him for it, whispered of him, their perception of him only reinforced. _The dragon who is not._

He cared little for them. His business was not with them.

So through the waning night he flew, still mulling over his own thoughts, and his suspicions growing greater and greater in his mind. Silseyol was destroyed and all should be well. Ausnahyol was free of him, and his power was his own now to nurture and grow; or he should have been. This matter of honour bound him still to the Dragonlord and Ausnahyol would be free of it before he pursued his own fate. This power granted to him, uplifting him, demanded release. He intended to. Never again would he be bound. Perhaps he would seek another name for the _dov_ to remember him by.

First, the matter of honour.

He crossed the lands of steam and stone and caught an updraft, lifting him high, high into the mountains bordering Skyrim and Morrowind both. Within these mountains lay the throne of the World-Eater, his overlord; his Eyrie, to which was said to lie the source of Alduin's might. Very few knew of what it really was, and Ausnahyol had not yet been granted the privilege. Alduin himself knew of it, as did Joorpaalrah, away on some dark errand as he'd been before. Alduin's faithful deputy, Odahviing, also was aware, for he had been entrusted with the guardianship of the throne while Alduin was away in the south quelling another doomed mortal rebellion. It made Ausnahyol chuckle to think that was exactly what Alduin had now tasked Odahviing now to do, to fly into the hot west lands and personally subdue the nuisance that was the Merigard. An alliance of three peoples and two lands. Ausnahyol had been educated upon the folly of Merigard in the meeting. Vulhil had lectured of it, to shame the weakling Cirroc, a man Ausnahyol personally believed unworthy of his jewel.

But Joorpaalrah had granted it to him, and to presume was dangerous when the Dragonborn himself was concerned. Even Ausnahyol would not dare fly those winds.

Who else knew of Alduin's might? Zoornahldir had, thought Ausnahyol—and Zoornahldir was also dead, vanquished by his own prey, the young bear of the east. That was a shame all on its own. What a blight upon that noble _dovah_ 's pride! Ausnahyol was glad the body remained lost to his overlord. Zoornahldir deserved no second life after _that_ display, useful as he had been.

And those were all who knew of it, for Alduin had returned to his Eyrie, and that was whom Ausnahyol was journeying to speak with. He had been in service to Vylornar, who had served his overlord; Ausnahyol would break all ties before going in pursuit of the matter of honour. To presume was also dangerous when the World-Eater was concerned.

Ausnahyol had been to the Eyrie many times, but never alone. The dragons had respected Silseyol. The sentries knew of his demise, and when they looked upon him almost immediately they assumed postures of scorn. Ausnahyol was not surprised. He had expected this. Rare was it for a mortal to win a _dovah_ 's respect—and when the mortal was gone, those who had respected him found themselves ashamed of ever having done so. They would amend themselves with shows of brutish strength. Ausnahyol braced himself for what followed with a stern reminder that he was _beyond_ them. _His_ power was precious. Vylornar's gift uplifted him beyond these petty spawn of dragonblood, _their_ power only natural.

" _Dovah niwolos_ ," jeered the first, a frost-mouth with a sneer quick on his tongue. "See him come. Here I thought you could not go anywhere without the _mortal_ guiding you."

Ausnahyol looked at him and let no rage show in his voice. There was strength in that. "He was a mortal with might to match yours, dishonourable."

The second sentry laughed. "His might undone by a snake."

"As yours may have been by a man." Ausnahyol turned to him. A _strun-dovah_ , one whose blood was storm and lightning, but who was little more than a late wyrm, reeking with inexperience; Alduin only had this one for the rare gift in the storm, Ausnahyol was certain. "Had not the _Dovahkiin_ come to his senses."

"Joorpaalrah is no man, blasphemous." The Storm wyrm showed its teeth.

"As I said," growled Ausnahyol, "he came to his senses." He turned back to the Frost, the only one worthy of authority. "Let me pass, brother. I have words I wish to share with our master."

"Alduin is not worthy of your time. And I am not your brother, you who is barely _dovah_."

Ausnahyol narrowed his eyes. How many times had he heard this…accused he was not _dovah_ because he was different, and proud of his differences. Vylornar had opened his eyes to many things and taught him well. Because he would not sing when he flew, he was not _dovah_. Because he thought and spoke as well the slave tongue as his brethren's, he was not _dovah_. Because he was susceptible to many independent ideas and intentions, he was not _dovah_. Because he actually _understood_ a mortal's mind, he was not _dovah_. Because he was _dovah niwolos_ , the dragon who was not. Because of Vylornar and his gift.

"I will not recite old quarrels now," he snapped. "My business with the firstborn is my own. He will hear me. Vylornar was a good servant, and I served our people through him. That is my choice and yours not to fathom, presumptuous. Now allow me to pass."

The Frost listened. The Storm wyrm did not. He lilted on his perch. "Begone, beggar."

Ausnahyol turned to him. His rage grew, the gift with it, and now he readied it upon his tongue, aware he would use it upon this brainless creature, unworthy of its inborn ability. "Speak again," he growled, "but offer me words of sorrow, and I will forgive what you said, and your fate will be kinder."

The Storm wyrm laughed loudly. "That is all you are worth now!"

And then he was screaming.

All it had taken was three words, three wonderful little words, for Ausnahyol's _thu'um_ was one to be feared. The Frost recoiled in terror, but the Storm wyrm received the rendering Shout, and howling, toppled from his perch.

Ausnahyol seized him by his throat. The wyrm was small, and Ausnahyol was large, the former's throat fit nicely in the latter's talons. He lifted him high into the air while he writhed and struggled in desperation as the Shout ate away at his very soul. Into eyes wide and full of fear, Ausnahyol snarled, "You will beware me, insolent child. It is dangerous to presume with me. You may be young, but that only explains your stupidity. I wonder now if you are worthy of your Voice. If you are worthy of your tongue. Seek no salvation from the sky, for I have made it betray you, and you know this, craven, you know this well."

The Storm struggled with many a whimper and whine, flailing helplessly above the yawning abyss below him. Ausnahyol slackened his grip ever so slightly, enough for the wyrm to feel his own weight start to drag him down to certain death.

"Your life means little to me, storm-spawn," Ausnahyol hissed. He made as if to drop the young dragon, but instead the talons upon his free foot lashed out and scored a trio of deep lacerations into the wyrm's wing, tearing clean through the black membrane. Blood welled immediately from the wounds. Then, without kindness, Ausnahyol dropped the _strun-dovah_ , but only back onto his perch. The wyrm sagged upon landing, scrabbling for purchase, wheezing in fright as he fought for hold. His wounded wing pained him greatly, and as soon as he found grip again he hugged it close with rattled gasps.

"So you shall remember me," Ausnahyol snarled. The Storm wyrm now stared at him in terror. His stark fear was as much of an apology as was needed, and so Ausnahyol allowed the Shout's power to wane off him—slowly, so the wyrm was certain to remember its dour touch. Then Ausnahyol turned to the Frost, who regarded him in greater caution. "Need I repeat myself, humbled?"

"No, brother." The Frost was careful to avoid looking at his companion as he gestured with his tail to the highest point of the Eyrie. "You will find our lord and master there within, and he will hear what words you have to share with him."

"Your name?"

The Frost's eyes narrowed, but he obliged. "Krahdaaniisk."

"And may you remember mine." Ausnahyol surged past, for enough time was wasted, and upon the vale winds he rose to where Alduin was to be found. He wondered if he had heard, or how many others had witnessed the power Vylornar had gifted him. But though he felt eyes upon him from the stone around and below, he was not impeded.

The porch was broad and spacious, and upon it Ausnahyol gracefully lighted, inferno wings furling to his sides. So Alduin was to be found within— _within_ , underground, away from the heavens? Curious, he thought—or perhaps it was to hide better from the Father. It was common knowledge Alduin had betrayed his duty for power. He too had broken prophecy, taken a greater destiny beyond him into his own hands and remade it to his own desires. Akatosh could hardly be pleased with his unruly son. But that was not for Ausnahyol to decide. It did seem to explain why Alduin insisted on meetings and councils underground, as uncomfortable as they were.

He strode inside, as much as he could, for the _dov_ were not meant to walk upon the ground like the lesser beasts and all the grace the sky offered them was denied. Wings were suddenly an encumbrance. Ausnahyol could do little more than waddle, and focus on not clawing himself. It was fortunate he did not have to venture too far beneath the mountain, for soon Alduin came into his sight. The firstborn of all dragonkind looked to have been resting, but twin scarlet flares penetrated the darkness at Ausnahyol's approach, and the World-Eater rose in a stream of shadow—as always, positioning himself higher than the one across from him, to remind the undisputed matter of dominance. Ausnahyol accepted it, and merely bowed his head. To willingly lower oneself was a gesture of subjugation. Nothing appeased the Renderer more than submission in his subjects.

"Ausnahyol, fireborn," said Alduin in his deepest rumble. "Why do you approach?"

" _Alduin thuri_ ," Ausnahyol hailed. "I have a request."

Alduin's nostrils flared, and he adjusted his position, to make himself seem even more imposing. Ausnahyol wasn't distracted, and for a time they held eyes, a test in which the subject proved as equal as his lord. "Proceed, then," the World-Eater growled at last.

"It is a matter of honour. I believe the last prey of Silseyol still breathes."

"Silseyol is dead."

"I am aware of this, righteous." Alduin knew just how closely linked their soul fires had been, mortal and immortal. The World-Eater was well aware of the gift. "It is not out of grief I wish to pursue the slight. It is a matter of honour. It tarnishes the grace of Silseyol to have the prey live when he does not."

"Of whom do you speak?"

"The mage of the north." Ausnahyol narrowed his eyes with a soft thrumming deep in his throat. He had seen the mage himself, twice, first when he had desperately been trying to win Vylornar's favour—that had been easily determined from his guile rendered useless under a dragon's all-seeing eyes—and then when the he had thought himself a worthy challenge. The dance had not lasted long, and of course the fool half-blood had failed, and miserably so—but Ausnahyol had yet to feel the spark inside the crippled spirit end.

Young and weak as the mage had been, he _had_ been fire—and to fire, Ausnahyol was drawn, more than any other creature.

He had felt a great release of power to the west, at a juncture of hold boundaries, a release like a storm, almost as great as Vylornar's own signature. Ausnahyol had not forgotten it, for he had reason to suspect, but there were other concerns he and Vylornar had shared at the time, including the return of their overlord from his re-cleansing of the southern provinces. After the gathering of the inner circle—after the death of the Dragonlord—as soon as his strength returned to him, Ausnahyol had flown to the place of the great release. The charred remains of what looked to be a camp of outlaws was all that was left, but the stench of mage-magic was strong. No natural flame had been the cause of this. Ausnahyol had felt this particular magic before, and knew immediately whom it had originated.

So yes, he had great reason to believe that somehow, Vylornar's prey still breathed.

"That is a trivial pursuit, foolish," the World-Eater snarled. "There are better uses for one of your abilities. I would not have you waste yourself upon a pursuit of a _mortal_ 's slighted honour."

"Mortal as he was, Vylornar was equal to any _dovah_."

Alduin showed his fangs. "You are loyal to him, then? Loyal to a pawn than a king?"

Ausnahyol cautioned himself before he spoke again, sharp with anger. "You doubt my loyalty, _thuri?_ We have only ever served to glorify the great race of the _dov_ , Silseyol included. He never needed reminding of his place. He was the fourth of your first five. Even he, a hand as loyal as I and the others of the _kosil kenlok_ , deserves his honour."

The World-Eater considered this, quietly, his long black tail sweeping back and forth. His wings unfurled once, then closed again. "Silseyol served us well," he conceded. His eyes burned into Ausnahyol's with such intensity that the latter flinched a little, despite his efforts to stay equal to the firstborn. "And so what would you have—our blood-essence in days and nights, and the liberty to conclude what my servant started?"

"That is all, gracious."

"And when it is done?"

Ausnahyol paused. A cruel smile lit Alduin's lips.

"You will return to my side, machination of mortalcraft. Silseyol entrusted to you to keep Joorpaalrah's blessing. It is not a gift to be used idly, to humble outspoken children." So he had seen. "Left only to you, it is a danger. You will be allowed to retain it, and all Silseyol gave to you, if you continue to serve us and swear allegiance. If you do not, it will be taken from you—and you will be weak again."

Fear—real fear—struck chords in Ausnahyol's soul; that, and fury. So this was Alduin's game, to ensure that the gift would stay under his supervision at all times, to ensure that it could never be used against him—the overlord of dragonkind was afraid of him! But Ausnahyol could not boast of this, for he was afraid of losing his gift, that which raised him beyond, beyond all his brethren, that had uplifted him into worthiness of might. He had wished to restore Vylornar's honour as a matter of courtesy for receiving the gift, and then the final bondage to him would be broken—and then he would be free to shape his own fate. It was not to be—his fate still belonged to others. What a bitter bargain of strength and power!

Alduin laughed. "Did you really think I would let you away from my sights, mistaken?"

"I could share the gift—"

"No. Do not be so foolish. Joorpaalrah would have you close."

"Then let him approach me and say it himself."

"Careful, outspoken. I am still your master. You do not have my blessing yet."

Ausnahyol lowered himself once more, forced himself to grovel again. " _Alduin thuri_ ," he muttered. " _Krosis_ , I meant no offence. But honour…that can have no argument. There is much we claim to be, but it is worthless if we cannot demonstrate it."

The World-Eater's eyes still glittered shrewdly, and Ausnahyol locked stares with him again, to let the firstborn understand that he spoke truth. Open-eyed, open-minded, this convinced him at least of that. "So be it," Alduin concluded. "Time is yours to amend Silseyol's ignorance."

 _Time_. Time meant little to dragonkind, the sons and daughters of such a thing. No number set on how much of it he was allowed, and the hunt could last. However, Ausnahyol was keen to rid himself of any bonds he could. The hunt he could achieve, and then delay in the return, if only to taste what it meant to shape his own fate. These thoughts he concealed as he nodded slowly. "I shall not fail to appease."

"Be careful who you intend to appease more," Alduin warned. "You shall be watched, and when it is done, then I shall know. Joorpaalrah's gift beats hot in your heart, fireborn. Do not let it go to waste, and do not usurp my blessing, _dovah niwolos_ , or you will be rendered in turn."

No threat, merely a promise if the subject should betray. Ausnahyol drowned this terror in new vengeance, one that burned a bright flame in his blood, that spurred him away from the treacherous overlord and back into the sky, the sphere of the Father, away from the mountains and into the relishing glow of the rising sun. The under-madness gained from a lack of the sky slipped away as the wind caught under his wings and rose him higher and higher above the twisted world.

And then the dragon who was not turned north, to end the one called Greatfire.

 **d|b**


End file.
